Something I have learned in the past year
is that there are broken Heineken bottles on the crest
of every rock in New England. There is a dull
but full view from each and a boring,
half-bad sonnet hiding just under
-neath. There are dozens of virginities
dangling from their steepest edges:
you can hear them rattling
against your every exhale.
Always right behind you; there is a clean sense of disappearing.
There is no scuttle away or shake of leaves.
There is no flip or pop,
no trick to the vanishing; just clean, cold ether and
exhale. It is hard for me to feel here - In places
where I was not placed; planted; where I did not grow.
It is hard for me to break
bottles and give it up
on rocks and hear the rattle of my own ghost
against the rattle of my own breath.
I do not know why I am allowing
the youngest parts of me die in New England.
On dorm room beds and in the shallow mud of city parks.
I have acres of skin that refuse to ask for this.
New England does not tire of the flesh that it lures;
does not deserve any of what it asks for.
This is part of what I have asked for. To be eaten
by rocks and half-bad sonnets / to learn how to be taken
without anybody noticing. This is no trick.
It is clean ether. Exhale. Breath. Rattle. Break.
It is hard, but I am learning how to break
in the cleanest possible ways; like the bottles;
several pieces of wholeness placed
in the footprints of Lost Boys wandering
in the cantos of yellow forests;
each of them learning how to breathe
and how to disappear
for a second time.
There are certain things that a man should not bite.
There is satisfaction in: sucking on your own bruises,
sucking on the fat part of your arm, sticking your head
between your legs and sucking on your thighs, sucking
on the backs of your hands until they bruise; finding
all of the places where your skin is falsetto; where its voice
peaks and cracks. My skin is a feedback loop.
My skin is manipulated for effect: I realized something
about what my skin was asking for. Stated in code for effect:
I bit my tongue and it bled. There are certain things
that a man should not bite: his own thorns, the cork
of wine bottles, anything that he does not explicitly own,
anything that is too different from himself; assuming he is
not also able to chew it. chew it. chew it. and let it in.
I’ve got a new home now : one with plenty of men
but no father: one with light tricks like phantoms:
here I am fucked
nightly by ghosts. They slide away when the light is full;
slither back. They are what or who I like to fuck.
They are something I can only see by mistake.
I am stories above everything known : i am lightning rod /
I am load-bearing : Boston ancient : snow falling up.
There are doe-white suns up here that I cannot share.
Not with the men or the ghosts or my father,
I am wondering who will melt me here : this time :
Am I Icarus? Will I dare? I am close enough
to reach / but I will settle for only blushes of light : for hosts
who will treat me like a guest here : for ghosts.
Biggg expansion of my sonnet from a few months ago. super personal but it’s pretty honest and thats why i’m posting it. TW for fam trauma and daddy issues heyyy;
I practice my signature like a child spitting
his name on the wood-bark and the lawn
one-billion times a boy but never enough
to word it quite so well : with the force of spit
I spit and trade spit : it is a magic thing;
A thing I dream of. A boy’s spit, well, it is his weapon
before he has arms to speak of or some
small hell to raise. To want to be wrapped
in the arms of boys and to seek their spit;
their signature, is an abandonment of your
own : it is crossing out your own name : it is
dreaming of someone who looks just like you
covered in wood-bark and grass shit : I sit here
with a page full of my names and there is ink left in the pen.