Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Nagoro: Valley of dolls


I didnt have much to do so I planted seeds
but none of them sprouted
I thought we needed a scarecrow
so I made one after my dead father
When I make dolls of dead people
the dolls are like my children

Facial expressions: the hardest part,
lips difficult I pull mouth strings
and they smile
I only think about the dolls
They scare some people
because they look so real

In the elements they don't live
as long as humans
I have a doll based on myself
She watches the pot and fire
She's taking a nap now
I don't think about death
I'll probably live forever

*A found poem based on the documentary short Valley of Dolls by Fritz SchumannValley of Dolls
Dolls take the place of former residents in a Japanese town left empty by an ageing population
Fritz Schumann



When pain replaces pain

But let us return to the child of the poem.
There is more here than a girl in pigtails, dragging
a doll by the hair, more than two brown eyes shrinking
in the Texas bright. Notice, for instance, the absence
of others. Notice how close cactus needles 
graze the girl's waist, fire ants at her feet carrying
a grain of bread from here to there. Heat rises
from pavement in a hazy wave, the bottom of her
shoes stick as she goes left to right. You are here now
so you notice the sounds coming through the door
-- the yelling and silence shatter against a heat so thick
you can barely breathe.
You are a visitor but this common as cacti for the girl,
as scorpion inside shoe-- inside her
a sadness has taken its root and coiled deep
in her gut and only the blue cat hiding
beneath the couch, understands.
But let us return to the child of the poem. Let us
watch as she sits on hundreds of
needles. Let us watch fire ants swarm her
hands, arms, bite her red. Let us
feel relief of the sadness leaving her body
in its place—a screaming pain.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Goddamn

Goddamn I love the sad smell of cedar, how it's musk weighs, in the closet soaking my clothes.

She's dusty, on the mantle, she leans between the naked angels and dried flowers.

I love sandpaper, the dust that makes me sneeze like I'm coming.

Im a little dark woman. I make things with my hands.

I fall asleep with my mind whirling thoughts like how no one has two shadows,
how in another life I'd become a truck driver--   
that endless road, all those lit cities, those unwritten poems.



Hungry to rub against a tree


I'm a necromantic. The rituals can be quite ellaborate.
I love black lace, wands and goats, have no time to waste
on people who spit in the face of a homosexual. I enjoy a Scandinavian
with gapped teeth and spend Fridays lying in fields
with goats, their ringed horns curved towards the moon like clits
calling up and out: hungry to rub against a tree. I have a soft spot
for cows. Their dumb eyes glaze over like mine & I wonder where they go.

I smell nice. I want longer hair and someone who spells correctly, someone
as warm as a black sheep in a barn.

I'm random. I want pigs to fly.I am for the alone and lonely. I love creases in the face and dead black women who sang or needed to.

Welcome to the water planet.

Most dont want to see 
the great white. Nearly all children begin to fear 
dark at age two,

but it's not entirely dark here, not with the head lamps,
not where I, submerged in underwater cage, 
jailed in a blue abyss light pours
above and I float. I'm crazy. 
I'm crazy here with the shark's teeth
and industrial jaw. 

My amygdala zapped and glowing I breathe in, I am lighting up.  

But now she sleeps in the warmth of her own bowed body


she once carried on her back the
silence of pain till a balloon popped
and all the anxiety withered in the warm
trickle of blood down her leg, down stream into zero
she discended—that child, into a warm haze where
they left her-- all of them

                                                she was kind of floating out there

till the bite brought her back, the red
rivered puddles: the world was clear again,
the world was clear and the sheath stayed warm
with knife-in-mind for years
scars mapped her body in stripes,
blotted constellations beneath her sleeves

at eight years young how could she have known
that first scizzor cut would stick, the fat 
bubbling out she squeezed 
and squeezed until
it bled no more

Angels and demons are not so distinguishable


In her head: a voice hawked her swiftly
into a kaleidoscopic wonderworld: triangles, stars,
trapezoids swirled
above through her, she became

aware of a ringing from a rock-- an outer tinnitus in the silence, in the light
moss dripped and hummed its green. The presence was there-- that voice
in her head ushering her over her shoulder, over a cliff

in the black dark, feet leaving fogged prints on tile, she removes her clothes. She is not beautiful
naked-- a secret she wants to undress for the world. She is not beautiful naked
and in the dark-- free, she stumbles

Is it angel or velcroed-demon? Shamans say mental illness is a merging of the spirit
world into the earth world, a message to pass into a human body. What message is she meant to carry? What message so worthy of the burden.

The meds have all but taken the presence away, closed her portals tight so barely
light:

but she remembers how she once brewed under moonlight buckets, how she counted numbers till they meant something holy, how the world groaned fluorescent, all the time: meaning in every damn thing, every damn thing a doorway, a meadowsweet's beckon through it, so she could turn another fragrant corner into endlessness