the years are not circular

lightning. the july night was sober
as a thunder bell, surrounded.
echoing trees of this clime
taller than i'd imagined. where was
my fear? such a storm, such a body
close near the water on the brightest
moon the eve before. but not
sober then, no, my eyes glazed like a trip
as you walked into the river.
the light, the forest, the halo,
the beach, the caves, the arc
of this story throws me over
and over into my bed unable to just
rest. sleeping in bags, sleeping with feet
of distance between limbs, sleeping
with desires all wrapped into this smallest
square of space. of space. what of
space? there were no mountains but knees
could be hills, sweat could be streams

and lightning? what could that be?

6.13.16

subway in march, 5:45 pm

by maggie nelson, from shiner

i take the long way home, knowing
i am free to choose happiness

or wander off into the tunnel
on the platform two teenagers french kiss, her lips

are enormous and soft and he seems at home with them
i feel crumpled like the pastel houses lining the canal

i am transporting an adorable succulent
the size of an infant's fist, holding it close as if

it were the one thing i had to keep alive
and thinking how much easier it would be

it all i had to love were this small plant
and then i wouldn't be so hard on you

and we could like the world before distrusting it
stop performing ourselves and let the pith of us

hang out. all these permutations of esteem and ridicule
when all i want is to stay focused on everyday life

what other kind of life is there?
all the world knows it, it's a miracle

the blue womb of evening
the nimble sparrow, the smug duck in the pond

the eruption of flowering quince
o shackle us to the rock of it

we will try to love each other
though there's wind on our heads

and we cannot read minds
the train jumps above ground

and stripes the car in gold light
it's the light of early spring

grief cocktail

 i miss you in the way of the oyster knife (i've never used). with precision. stabs to the abdomen. high-pitched squeal in ears. unavoidable.

icy hot tiger balm

cold air pecking at a face

 

is that a crow or just garbage

bags stuck in a tree

 

i raise a black fist

printed onto a sign

punch myself in my own throat

 

walk with me we

could stop anytime

startled by a truck blazing by on the left

muted headphones

 

haven't written in decades so stop

looking, judging, typing

 

who knew the heat was so hot

or freezing who knew

did you

redlining and guilt

 from notes from no man's land by eula biss

"in the 1960s, many white suburban communities gained access to federal funds for 'urban aid' by incorporating themselves as municipalities. in the 1970s and 1980s, lenders refused to obey new fair housing laws, and the federal home loan bank board redlined areas with increasing minority populations. the 1975 home mortgage disclosure act and the 1977 community reinvestment act were ignored by the reagan administration. now, whites who became home owners under discriminatory circumstances are profiting from the appreciation of their homes. 'the appreciated value of owner-occupied homes,' writes george lipsitz, 'constitutes the single greatest source of wealth for white americans. it is the factor most responsible for the disparity between blacks and whites in respect to wealth -- a disparity between the two groups much greater than their differences in income. it is the basis of intergenerational transfers of wealth that enable white parents to give their children financial advantages over the children of other groups." (211)

"professor of anthropology allan young discusses ed daily, along with several vietnam veterans who confessed to atrocities they did not commit, in his 2002 article 'the self-traumatized perpetrator as a <transient mental illness.>' these men, who participated in military action they may have found deeply objectionable even if it was not technically criminal, now imagine themselves criminals who suffer because of their crimes -- self-traumatized perpetrators. 'in their own eyes,' young explains, 'their pain is real and an extension of the victims' suffering.' the self-traumatized perpetrator who 'becomes a victim as a consequence of being a perpetrator' is a phenomenon, according to young, mainly limited to the united states. he notes that certain cultural and political conditions encourage the self-traumatized perpetrator to manifest as a disorder, including a society that tends to think of victims and perpetrators as polar opposites. (in such a society, the person who believes himself to be both victim and perpetrator can find psychological release only through a disorder.) and so perhaps our tendency to imagine victims only in opposition to perpetrators is what prevents us from recognizing ourselves as an entire nation of self-traumatized perpetrators -- some of us experiencing our trauma as guilt, others as delusion.

when i think about the nature of guilt, i think, inevitably, about 'notes of a native son.' in that essay james baldwin writes about the bitterness and anger that destroyed his father, and then about the bitterness and anger he feels toward his father, feelings so closely tied to his feelings about his country that they cannot be untangled. 'i saw nothing very clearly,' he writes, 'but i did see this: that my life, my real life, was in danger, and not from anything other people might do but from the hatred i carried in my own heart.'

whenever i read this essay i am moved to wonder if guilt, badly handled, might be just as gangrenous and just as dangerous as hate. if anger is, as baldwin so often points out, the inevitable inheritance of the black american, then guilt may be the inevitable inheritance of the white american. (this is not a guilt based on individual wrongdoing but on collective responsibility, so if you find the word 'guilt' objectionable, think 'responsibility' instead. but i prefer 'guilt,' in part because of its religious associations. we tend to think of guilt as embarrassing and unnecessary now, but it was once imagined, the old testament suggests, as an impetus to redemption. the prophet amos: 'woe to them that are at ease in zion.')" (221 & 222)

destabilization

 "in both friendship and love, the expectation that one's expressive (if not best) self will flower in the presence of the beloved other is key. upon that flowering all is posited. but what if the restless, the fluid, the mercurial, within each of us is steadily undermining the very thing we think we most want? what, in fact, if the assumption of a self in need of expressiveness is an illusion? what if the urge toward stable intimacy is perpetually threatened by an equally great, if not greater, urge toward destabilization? what then?"

-vivian gornick, the odd woman and the city

personhood, and its relationship to the body

 from tomorrow sex will be good again by katherine angel (verso)

"now the individual woman whom this risk discourse addresses is an idealized and vehemently confident sexual subject, one who knows herself, speaks directly and clearly, and refuses her own vulnerability. she manages risk through her self-expression. she uses her confident self-knowledge as armour for her own protection; she asserts her invulnerability as a way of keeping her vulnerability at bay. . . 

there is, of course, something satisfying about this rhetorical move; allying oneself to power, not weakness, is gratifying. but it also serves a protective function, one which comes with painful costs. . .  hardening oneself is often a necessary response to violence, or a necessary strategy in the face of it. perhaps the fear - the constant spectre - of rape does this to our thoughts, our ideas, too." (36)

"most men experience the inability to sustain an erection as distressing and humiliating, which is precisely the reason viagra was such a success for pfizer. the company also cannily sensed that the failure of desire in a man is oxymoronic; it is more humiliating, and perhaps more unthinkable, for a man to fail to experience subjective sexual desire than it is for a technical glitch to occur in the mechanics of arousal. what is a man, after all, without desire? masculinity is libido, appetite, excitement.

women - so writers, pick-up-artists, and christian grey tell us - are disconnected from, or dishonest about, the truth that their bodies 'scream' out. in the framing of viagra, in contrast, there was no possibility that a man's feelings are 'disconnected from' the truth his body tells us. on the contrary, his subjective sense of interest in sex, despite his impotence, is taken as the truth. it is he, not his body, that speaks the truth - and we believe him. personhood, and its relationship to the body, is different in men and women: men are authorities on themselves, while women are not." (84)

"sex can induce anxiety and defensiveness precisely because it is a realm in which we risk intense pleasure. relinquishing control can be so destabilizing that we want to short-circuit it, and defend, as berlant and edelman write, 'our putative sovereignty'. and here's the nub of things: sex, and desire, compromise our sense of sovereignty, of knowing ourselves, and of being in control." (102)

inadequate

 from erasure by percival everett (152)

"i imagined that my mother discovered the letters just after father's death, when he'd asked her to burn and not read them. but he of course knew that she would read them. i found myself angry with him, a stupid enough feeling with a live person. then i wondered which was more confidence-killing: believing that you should not have felt inadequate when in fact you were, or discovering that, all along, you were actually smart enough to see things clearly, that you were correct in your fears."

living it up

 by max ritvo, from four reincarnations

the bed is on fire, and are you laughing?

you leave the bed

and leave me without thought.

the springs want to embrace each other

but they're afraid if they break

their spiral, they will never

be able to hold anyone.

i wish you would let me know

how difficult it is to love me.

then i would know you love me

beneath all that difficulty.

you are tending not only to me, you tell me, 

but to your other child -- the air,

and air puts his feet in my slippers,

and air scrubs his teeth on my brush,

and we must learn to share a bed,

we must learn to share a body.

the money is running out.

we will have to split one needle

this winter -- one end for me,

one end for air.

irresistible

 from the needle's eye by fanny howe

"degenerating matter is as alive as young matter, even feistier sometimes, for life fights for life. the stony planets are vibrating as are the chips and bones and ashes on this flying rock. but is that really living? only if empathy is pulling them around like gravity: an irresistible attachment to each other's fate." (56)

ha ha! you thought you got to choose

 from know my name by chanel miller

"you belong here, she said. and anger is allowed to be embodied. rage for the perpetrator, bystanders, society, was a healthy and normal response. some direct anger inward toward themselves, feeling that this is the only safe way to be angry. this could result in negative self-talk, blaming ourselves for the trauma, struggling to reconcile prior beliefs about justice, systems of meaning." (306)

"no matter how formidable or self-assured i might become, i will always be a tadpole. i believe that's what being a victim is, living with that little finicky, darting thing inside you. most people say development is linear, but for survivors it is cyclic. people grow up, victims grow around; we strengthen that place of hurt, become older and fuller, but the vulnerable core is never gone. more than becoming a frog, i believe surviving means learning to live forever with this trembling tadpole." (307)

"writing is the way i process the world. when i was given the opportunity to write this book, whatever god is up there said, you got your dream. i said, actually i was hoping for a lighter topic, and god was like ha ha! you thought you got to choose. this was the topic i was given. if something else had happened to me, i would have written about that too. when i get worked up over what happened, i tell myself, you are a pair of eyes. i'm a civilian who's been randomly selected to receive an all-access pass to the court system. feelings will include invasion, shame, isolation, cruelty. my job is to observe, feel, document, report. what am i learning and seeing that other people can't see? what doorways does my suffering lead to? people sometimes say, i can't imagine. how do i make them imagine? i write to show how victims are treated at this moment in time, to record the temperature of our culture. this is a marker, and i hope that in twenty years this grueling aftermath of victimhood will feel foreign." (315)

dot dot dot

 by ari banias, from anybody

touch me lightly as we walk around the polluted lake.

touch your arm to mine.

see the sunset behind the courthouse, and how they are one

 institution touching another. to my elbow touch your own

as the pelicans dip their otherworldly faces

in union into the night water. starched dress shirts

without bodies in them, without heads. 

walk with me up the residential hill and down the other side.

as we sit across from each other at the unexceptional thai restaurant

touch your leg to my leg. the table wobbles and because i am with you

i forget it. at the streetcorner,

smell the eucalyptus reminiscent of cat piss.

glance with me into the cardboard box at the discarded khakis

and rollerboard suitcase, and touch my shoulder. this is the key

broken off inside my car door in desperation by a stranger.

climb in through the trunk with me and touch your head to my head

at the cheek, at the temple, at the eye, at the lips.

let's go to the mucky shore and watch

the gondolier in the striped shirt, a cliche and real,

stroking the water seriously.

take my body away from me

lightly by touching me, take away

my head. steer me with gentleness

from the sizeable heap of oranges molding at the curb

which i would otherwise describe further.

song of the anti-sisyphus

  by chen chen from when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities

i want to start a snowball fight with you, late at night

in the supermarket parking lot. i want you

to do your worst. i want to put the groceries in the car first

because it's going to get nasty. because i was reading today

in the science section of the paper that passionate love

lasts only a year, maybe two, if you're lucky.

because i want to be extra, extra lucky. because the article 

apologized specifically to poets -- sorry, you hopeless

saps -- as though we automatically believe in love more

than anyone else (more than kindergarten teachers, long-haired

carpenters) & have been pushing this non-truth

on everyone. because who knows what will happen,

but i want to, baby, want to believe it's always possible

to love bigger & madder, even after two, three, four years,

four decades. i want a love as dirty as a snowball fight

in the sludge, under grimy yellow lights. i want this winter

inside my lungs. inside my brain & dream. i want to eat

the unplowed street & the fog that's been erasing 

evergreens. i want to eat the fog only to discover 

it's some giant's lost silver blanket. i want to 

find the giant & return to him his treasure.

i want the journey to be long. & strange, like a map 

drawn in snow by our shadows shivering. i want to shiver

against you, into you. i want the sound

of your teeth. i want the sound of the wind. i want to be

like the kids with their plastic sleds, gliding down, 

all the way down the hill, then trudging

their sleds & snowsuited bodies all the way

back to the top. i want to be how they do this, for hours,

till sunset, till some sensible someone has

to come drag them away from the snow, the slope,

the 3. . .            2. . .            1!

of joy. i want to be the anti-sisyphus, in love

with repetition, in love, in love. foolish repetition,

wise repetition. i want more hours, i want insomnia, i want

to replace the clock tick with tambourines. i want to growl,

moan, whisper, grunt, hum, & howl your name.

i want again & again your little dance, little booty shake

in big snow boots, as i sing your name.

for i will do/undo what was done/undone to me

 by chen chen from when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities

i pledge allegiance to the already fallen snow

& to the snow now falling. to the old snow & the new.

to foot & paw & tire prints in the snow both young & aging,

the deep & shallow marks left on cold streets, our long

misbegotten manuscripts. i pledge allegiance to the weather

report that promises more snow, plus freezing rain.

though i would minus the pluvial & plus the multitude

of messages pressed muddy into the perfectly

mutable snow, i have faith in the report that goes on to read:

by the end of the week, there will be an increased storm-related

illegibility of the asphalt & concrete & brick. for i pledge

betrayal to the fantasy of ever reading anything

completely. for i will do/undo what was done/undone to me:

to be brought into a patterned world of weathers

& reports. & thus i pledge allegiance to the always 

partial, the always translated, the always never

of knowing who's walking around, what's being left behind,

the signs, the cries, the breadcrumbs & the blood. the toe-

nails & armpit hair of our trying & failing to speak

our specks of here to the everywhere. dirty snow of my weary 

city, i ask you to tell me a story about your life

& you tell me you've left for another country,

but forgot your suitcase. at the airport they told you

not to worry, all your things have already been sent 

to your new place by your ninth-grade french teacher,

the only nice one. & the weather where your true love is

is governed by principles or persons you can't name,

imagine. it is that good, or bad.

kafka's axe & michael's vest

 by chen chen, from when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities

still winter. snowing, still. can it even be called action, this patience

in the form of gravity overdressed in gray?

days like this, the right silence can be an action, an axe,

right through the frozen sea, as kafka calls for. a necessary smashing,

opening. though silence can also be a shattering, closing.

 

think of peace & how the buddhists say it is found through silence.

think of silence & how audre lorde says it will not protect you.

 

think of silence as a violence, when silence means being made

a frozen sea. think of speaking as a violence, when speaking is a house

that dresses your life in the tidiest wallpaper. it makes your grief

 

sit down, this house. it makes you chairs when you need

justice. it keeps your rage room temperature. i've been thinking

 

about how the world is actually unbearable.

about all those moments of silence we're supposed to take.

each year, more moments, less life, & perhaps

 

the most monastic of monks are right to take vows 

of silence that last a decade.

 

though someone else (probably french) says our speaking

was never ours; our thoughts & selves housed 

by history, rooms we did not choose, but must live in.

 

think of paul celan, living

in the bone-rooms of german. living, singing.

 

what does it mean, to sing in the language of those

who have killed your mother,

would kill her again? does meaning shatter, leaving

 

behind the barest moan? this english, i bear it, a master's

axe, yet so is every tongue -- red with singing & killing. 

 

are we even built for peace? i think of breath & my teacher,

michael, one of the least masterly, most peaceful people i know,

& kafka's number one fan. i think of the puffy blue vest michael wears

 

when his breaths turn white. even when i'm doing my best

to think axes & walls, brave monks & unbearable houses,

 

the thought of michael in his bit-too-big deep blue vest

leaks in. & i don't think i will ever stop trying to sneak

into casual conversations the word "ululation." if only all language

 

could be ululation in blue vests. if silence could always be

as quiet as michael, sitting with his coffee & his book, rereading.

sorry

 excerpts from on earth we're briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong

the most common english word spoken in the nail salon was sorry. it was the one refrain for what it meant to work in the service of beauty. again and again, i watched as manicurists, bowed over a hand or foot of a client, some young as seven, say, "i'm sorry. i'm sorry. i'm so, so sorry," when they had done nothing wrong. i have seen workers, you included, apologize dozens of times throughout a forty-five-minute manicure, hoping to gain warm traction that would lead to the ultimate goal, a tip-- only to say sorry anyway when none was given.

in the nail salon, sorry is a tool one uses to pander until the word itself becomes currency. it no longer merely apologizes, but insists, reminds: i'm here, right here, beneath you. it is the lowering of oneself so that the client feels right, superior, and charitable. in the nail salon, one's definition of sorry is deranged into a new word entirely, one that's charged and reused as both power and defacement at once. being sorry pays, being sorry even, or especially, when one has no fault, is worth every self-deprecating syllable the mouth allows. because the mouth must eat.

and yet it's not only so in the nail salon, ma. in those tobacco fields, too, we said it. "lo siento," manny would utter as he walked across mr. buford's field of vision. "lo siento," rigo whispered as he reached to place a machete back on the wall where buford sat ticking off numbers on a clipboard. "lo siento," i said to the boss after missing a day when lan had another schizophrenic attack and had shoved all her clothes into the oven, saying she had to get rid of the "evidence." "lo siento," we said when, one day, night arrived only to find the field half harvested, the tractor, its blown-out engine, sitting in the stilled dark. "lo siento, senor," each of us said as we walked past the truck with buford inside blasting hank williams and staring at his withered crop, a palm-sized photo of ronald reagan taped to the dash. how the day after, we began work not with "good morning" but with "lo siento." the phrase with its sound of a bootstep sinking, then lifted, from mud. the slick muck of it wetting our tongues as we apologized ourselves back to making our living. again and again, i write to you regretting my tongue. 

******************************************************************************

what do you call the animal that, finding the hunter, offers itself to be eaten? a martyr? a weakling? no, a beast gaining the rare agency to stop. yes, the period in the sentence -- it's what makes us human, ma, i swear. it lets us stop in order to keep going. 

because submission, i soon learned, was also a kind of power. 

*******************************************************************************

let me tie my shadow to your feet and call it friendship, i said to myself.

*******************************************************************************

i'm not telling you a story so much as a shipwreck -- the pieces floating, finally legible.

*******************************************************************************

later, i would learn that this was a common scene on a saigon night. city coroners, underfunded, don't always work around the clock. when someone dies in the middle of the night, they get trapped in a municipal limbo where the corpse remains inside its death. as a response, a grassroots movement was formed as a communal salve. neighbors, having learned of a sudden death, would, in under an hour, pool money and hire a troupe of drag performers for what was called "delaying sadness." 

in saigon, the sound of music and children playing this late in the night is a sign of death -- or rather, a sign of a community attempting to heal.

it's through the drag performers' explosive outfits and gestures, their overdrawn faces and voices, their tabooed trespass of gender, that this relief, through extravagant spectacle, is manifest. as much as they are useful, paid, and empowered as a vital service in a society where to be queer is till a sin, the drag queens are, for as long as the dead lie in the open, an othered performance. their presumed, reliable fraudulence is what makes their presence, to the mourners, necessary. because grief, at its worst, is unreal. and it calls for a surreal response. the queens - in this way - are unicorns.

unicorns stamping in a graveyard

moonbeam

 by louise gluck, from the seven ages

 

the mist rose with a little sound. like a thud. 

which was the heart beating. and the sun rose, briefly diluted.

and after what seemed years, it sank again

and twilight washed over the shore and deepened there. 

and from out of nowhere lovers came, 

people who still had bodies and hearts. who still had 

arms, legs, mouths, although by day they might be

housewives and businessmen.

the same night also produced people like ourselves.

you are like me, whether or not you admit it.

unsatisfied, meticulous. and your hunger is not for experience

but for understanding, as though it could be had in the abstract.

then it's daylight again and the world goes back to normal.

the lovers smooth their hair; the moon resumes its hollow existence.

and the beach belongs again to mysterious birds

soon to appear on postage stamps.

but what of our memories, the memories of those who depend on images?

do they count for nothing?

the mist rose, taking back proof of love.

without which we have only the mirror, you and i.

~nobel prize winner~

💙 

the seven ages by louise gluck

 

in my first dream the world appeared

the salt, the bitter, the forbidden, the sweet

in my second i descended

 

i was human, i couldn't just see a thing

beast that i am

 

i had to touch, to contain it

 

i hid in the groves,

i worked in the fields until the fields were bare --

 

time

that will never come again --

the dry wheat bound, caskets

of figs and olives

 

i even loved a few times in my disgusting human way

 

and like everyone i called that accomplishment

erotic freedom,

absurd as it seems

 

the wheat gathered and stored, the last

fruit dried: time

 

that is hoarded, that is never used,

does it also end?

 

in my first dream the world appeared

the sweet, the forbidden

but there was no garden, only

raw elements

 

i was human: 

i had to beg to descend

 

the salt, the bitter, the demanding, the preemptive

 

and like everyone, i took, i was taken

i dreamed

 

i was betrayed:

 

earth was given to me in a dream

in a dream i possessed it

ace of hearts

 excerpt from slab by selah saterstrom (coffeehouse press, p. 191)

 

when she was brave enough, the girl harriet turned over the remaining card on madam surget's makeshift table.

 

something comes to an end, madam surget said. this is a gate card, the heart's path, but broken open, diaspora.

 

it is the story of people leaving their homes and never coming back. and the moon goes through all its phases at once.

 

it is what it is. the best you can do is accept it.

 

make an offering for what is lost without judging how that offering is received. always set a place at your table for the dead. know too that their number includes you. cast yourself as a figure, leaving. while you go, tell yourself stories you learned and made. it all enters memory, the watery grave of what you will, in other words, forget.

 

when you can, give the precious version, yourself as you are, the story of your survival after the death created through having loved.

 

there isn't time to pack a bag, you must be on your way.

red velvet classic

 excerpt from slab by selah saterstrom (coffeehouse press, p. 76)

 

 get a thorn from a white rose bush. and a box of betty crocker red velvet cake mix. acquire a jar of gold, magnetic sand. goat milk, fresh if you can arrange it, you will need a whole cup. and bowls: two small, one large, glass, and clear. we shall need a towel too. petition that the dram correspond to the nine conditions, and a bench, chapel length, and a man's bed. warm the wax. form one portion of the halved wax into the shape of him. form one portion of the halved wax into the shape of you. bake the red velvet cake using black hen eggs. after it springs from the pan, knife the red, steaming bread and slip in a dead relative's lock of hair. bury the cake in your backyard, under a tree, whole, with birthday candles on top, burning. balm, enough to coat the entire sarcophagus, and wash your slips in blue water that has within it one pinch of saltpeter. and after you have done these things, all these goddamned things, you will be done with it. you will be done.

weekend in the underworld

  by franz wright, from walking to martha's vineyard

 

once i held your face

in my hands, i saw through

space

poor spirit

drifting off now

like smoke in pouring rain

wait---

are you there?

everywhere. i'm 

everywhere