blaring overhead, a careful uproar through the microphone: an autistic child is missing, fourteen, barely, imagining a face, motioning along the fundus of an aluminum wrapper, cherry picked, usurped and stowed away. in the investigation of possibilities, a chorionic lurk of motherhood displaced in the foliage of gametes, resuscitated to a living, bellowing alarm. help me, anyone, help me. i am trying to imagine the angularity of your shoulders, what you are thinking about at nine twenty-three, do you cry? do you work at a cafeteria or perhaps, a PA? are you an expat and divorced? are you suicidal with pills? drooling in your sleep? exhausted from the hyper-vigilant demands of an autistic child -conceivably broken, perceptually bloodied, agape in yells, screaming and moaning at the cork windows, pierced to your bone in pain, repentance and the sensibility of loss. AIDS killed your second child and your husband at the cost of acute convulsion -rabid diagnosis, terrified and self-provoked, awake since your sixth miscarriage. i picture you olive, with a satin shawl draped across your breast, smudged iris, bleeding lip cage, crystalloid ribs, petite and waxy, in pastel shoes, pacing about on your terrace, hallucinating, LSD'ed and toxic, drumming your uterus, menstruating in barrels of camphor and gauze. i imagine your arms, outstretched and ribboned, tattooed in marvel a Mexican jesus. praying at the bury beds, leaching to the honeycombs of primal recreation, bawling in streams, humming an elegy; rancorous, sublimate and intangible. a pacifism drivel bandaged to your moldy reflection, luminescence in vacuum, shredding and stripping your maniacal gyri, scalding your eyes, tearing your skin, breaking the silence of your hemi-god mythologies, racing and pacing to the shack sliver trilogies, the rail steel and cream. immersing in acid, the analog of shape, coping with a missing child, a conduit, an embarrassment.
walking in Chelsea, you spotted me from a distance. i closed my eyes, wishing you hadn't noticed, turned around, swung my heels, gasped, continued walking. you yelled my name, twelve times. i counted through my ear phones, and ran towards me. leaving your car by the naked streets, crookedly parked, punctuate and polished. the eighth time and ninth, I smiled. ashamedly, nervously, reminiscing a forgotten existence. the frequency of your shriek grew higher and higher, till you were by my side, holding my head, smiling peevishly, expectant. we hugged. small talk fulfilling the emptiness of air, feign convenience and allowances warbling your speech. what do you want? i asked you. i've been depressed, you said. i killed a toad, a few rats and fucked my nephew. you added, it was consensual, and paused. the height of my neo-liberalism and iconoclasm, revering the complexity of self-hegemony, floated to the machinations of dialogue. i asked, did that make you happy? very much, you said. while we fucked, you continued, i thought of a rendering of a dead President. Ulysses S Grant. They smell alike, look alike and think alike. i could tell you were dizzy, exhausted and unhappy. we decided dinner.
flecking the edges of wheatgrass tips, shaking from heroin withdrawals, you continued. the intensity of your personality leaves you unfulfilled, constantly seeking, mistakenly condemned, frivolously laid. i punish myself for everything. accomplished, unaccomplished and coveted. to a point where i'm tied, whipping my chest; that blood feels good. this is a Times reporter, sexualized and caramelized, misled in psychedelics. remembering the recurrence of pity, examination and devastation, you paused. i blame you. all this while, why now? the revolutionaries have rebelled past, rumbled into the milieu of a sexual philosophy. you cannot fondle on the subway, or mate in the pier. the wheeling of your existentialism, the expanse of your fatalism, the fringe of exculpation sabotaged in the un-sustainability of your voracious subsistence. you chose to be alone, to liberate your desire to the gaping boys, to juggle a life of convenience -and now riddled with pills, maniacal and crippled, you shake and shake and explode in a globule of sorrow. and i say to you, a plume puppet, take all the love you have for me, and spread it to your soul. blossoming, healing and tempestuous. a Manhattan fall. smoking leaves. birds fly away.
walking in Chelsea, you spotted me from a distance. i closed my eyes, wishing you hadn't noticed, turned around, swung my heels, gasped, continued walking. you yelled my name, twelve times. i counted through my ear phones, and ran towards me. leaving your car by the naked streets, crookedly parked, punctuate and polished. the eighth time and ninth, I smiled. ashamedly, nervously, reminiscing a forgotten existence. the frequency of your shriek grew higher and higher, till you were by my side, holding my head, smiling peevishly, expectant. we hugged. small talk fulfilling the emptiness of air, feign convenience and allowances warbling your speech. what do you want? i asked you. i've been depressed, you said. i killed a toad, a few rats and fucked my nephew. you added, it was consensual, and paused. the height of my neo-liberalism and iconoclasm, revering the complexity of self-hegemony, floated to the machinations of dialogue. i asked, did that make you happy? very much, you said. while we fucked, you continued, i thought of a rendering of a dead President. Ulysses S Grant. They smell alike, look alike and think alike. i could tell you were dizzy, exhausted and unhappy. we decided dinner.
flecking the edges of wheatgrass tips, shaking from heroin withdrawals, you continued. the intensity of your personality leaves you unfulfilled, constantly seeking, mistakenly condemned, frivolously laid. i punish myself for everything. accomplished, unaccomplished and coveted. to a point where i'm tied, whipping my chest; that blood feels good. this is a Times reporter, sexualized and caramelized, misled in psychedelics. remembering the recurrence of pity, examination and devastation, you paused. i blame you. all this while, why now? the revolutionaries have rebelled past, rumbled into the milieu of a sexual philosophy. you cannot fondle on the subway, or mate in the pier. the wheeling of your existentialism, the expanse of your fatalism, the fringe of exculpation sabotaged in the un-sustainability of your voracious subsistence. you chose to be alone, to liberate your desire to the gaping boys, to juggle a life of convenience -and now riddled with pills, maniacal and crippled, you shake and shake and explode in a globule of sorrow. and i say to you, a plume puppet, take all the love you have for me, and spread it to your soul. blossoming, healing and tempestuous. a Manhattan fall. smoking leaves. birds fly away.
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