notes to a blister (oprihory)
hello darkness (my old friend) i’ve come to talk to you again
about visions creeping within that tenth pill
and i am reminded once again
nothing echoes louder
against the cobblestone of a sleepless mind
than the sound of silence
dear silence: you must be broken, let the pus run yellow as the sun,
but always know you are my favorite moment, like an ex who can
still make me laugh even while packing
dear ex: do not leave this poem for you are as perfect
as i want you to be. my little doll who will undress when told,
smile even as you bruise, and never say the things you actually said
because here it is always my turn to speak
dear turning: i love your back. both the action and time. the former because
i had to as i lacked the language to convince you i meant everything i said.
the latter holds hands with miss and her boyfriend opportunity, but i prefer her gentle cousin,
missing, as i seem to do that best of all
dear cousin: you killed yourself on a march night. i often wonder how you looked
after you jumped. did your fishnet legs kick back and forth like a newborn baby in the dark?
what pjs were you wearing, maybe your son’s favorite?
guess it doesn’t matter
was told you were too decomposed to tell anymore.
i bet it was the first time the inside matched the outer.
you must be proud to know ten years later what a good example you turned out to be.
no bible spoke truer words to me
dear words: you are the only thing that actually represents yourself. that is why in the
beginning there was only you and god
you are my enemy
come out and fight with me
and bring your cannons three
climb up my poison tree
slide down my sword
into my cellar door
and we’ll be enemies
forever more more
1 2 3 4
dear 4: you mean death in chinese. that is why you are forbidden in asian elevators.
but i do not fear you; because change it to the first tone and you become tearing
and revealing is what always follows. plus add an unbroken circle next to you and you become
40, not nearly as deadly and a highway to a memory
dear highway 40: i found so much happiness with you from fayettville to little rock on weekend runs.
but that is a different story. you do not belong in this poem
dear poems: i can never have children, so you will have to suffice.
i hope they will treat you kindly when i am gone. you were the best part of me.
i swear to always give you a voice. i know how silence like a cancer grows
dear cancer: **** you. **** you. ****you****you****you. ****. YOUUUUUUU.
dear hysterical: you were there when her nine year old melon head got stuck
between the staircase bannister and she wailed like a shewolf in heat. also last night
when i realized i wasn't talking to my dead mother, but a picture nailed into a white apartment wall
dear wall: you were my best lover and when we were five or six we rode horses made of sticks
no one could shoot me down
when i coated you like a wet seed nestled within a red womb
dear womb: i don’t like you. you bleed too much. you carry hope and pressure.
your sister is an alarm clock but mine will never ring
dear ring: i’m glad i put you on. it matches a man that is good at making me laugh.
he will make a merry widower, his belly full of my pictures. and i hope he finds another,
someone not as broken as his last
note to last: you are not the last in this poem, but i feel you coming…
dear ellipses: thank you. you say what needs to be said when i cannot go on. you are the only warning
given, poking like a cold middle finger through a sheet of thick despair
dear despair: you are my incestuous twin and you fill every hole with your fingering until
you explode, making my limbs numb and i lack the strength to push you back.
you are desperate to touch my body, obsess over how to possess me. i do realize no one will
ever love me like you do so it is impossible to let you go
note to go: yes. yes, i want to. how you make me dream.
dear dream: i can no longer afford you. but i will buy you one more drink before last call
if you promise that as i lay me down to sleep, you’ll send a message to your sweet sister death to keep
and it will read -
do not come as a metaphor, but solid as a window facing spring.
see the hand still lacing a favorite book; page 23 sleepy from under the shadow.
tea glass cool and sweaty, the sugar at the bottom tiny punctuations
to a story that stops before it ends.
do not announce yourself like horns, the hot spit of late traffic,
but rather in the click, slide, and plop within the top of that glass;
the sound of ice
Does she know how much her God loves her?...I need to know...