Why I Am Not A Painter

you broke your hand - a month
ago; your feet failed

to hold you. we can't hold
ourselves. i visit my mother,

try to smash her
with my eyes, want

to talk to your mouth, which is
sealed with eyelids. i think

you saw me
before you shut

down. i can dance
on one leg, but if

i do, i can't
kick you

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 11:05 PM 0 comments

the advice she gives me is maybe
we've been friends this long
because i've been unavailable.

this boy wants me, is free
with caresses. i don't know if you know
how uncomfortable i am on this couch

but i rarely see you
irritated the way you are
now. i want to live in the space

under your arm, next to your neck.
when you hug me or wear my clothing
i could wear these clothes longer,

hold on and hope this boy
doesn't try to touch me. she tells me
it sounds like i'm doing everything right,

if i don't want things to get physical
you and i should hang out
in crowds.

posted by Emilie  # 10:32 PM 0 comments

starting can be easy
but follow-through a thread
piercing
hurts

storylines shouldn't
snap, i'm dangerous
to myself, to others
p.s. i love you

stranger, i have not slept
solidly for months. the air
is full of conversations, full
of apologies

why am i
paralyzed
in the mourning
of the past, of the future

posted by Emilie  # 8:12 AM 0 comments

if i repeat
'how inexpressible,' will this
express? there are

words we do not say. press
our chests, palms, and feet
together like prayer: we

know it as though inside
ourselves the other
lives. does this happen

to birds? with their small
and rapidly beating
hearts

Labels: less rough

posted by Emilie  # 12:22 AM 0 comments

in your quiet
foot, i feel the
movement

of teeter totters. it is
like we have been
doing this

since childhood.

posted by Emilie  # 2:14 PM 0 comments

you laugh at my voice all
evening, it rings low
like a telephone in my chest. when
we talk, i feel
like

sleeping, and not
because we have not
but because we want
to communicate
like humans
and humans have bodies. how foreign
this feeling is, how absolute.

your laughter could be rapid
eye movement. i could be seeing
images in my head

Labels: david - with intention, less rough

posted by Emilie  # 11:03 AM 0 comments

stop my mouth with words
describing
smells; the temperature

shifts, heat
conducted. music
made of

pulses. i feel
the need
to grope

the wall
as though it were
skin. you

have alliteration
on your side
and here, have

my heart, it is
inside
my body

Labels: less rough

posted by Emilie  # 1:07 AM 0 comments

(after i breathe in your ear), you ask
to see the text pinned on my shoulder.

it slipped from under the pit
of my arm. i'm certain that i wrote this

sometime in the sixth grade, for a boy
with a crew cut and no notice

of me. there's an invisible violin
under my arm - i'm late to play

at a concert no one is attending. this
instrument is in my throat

and if you take this note off me,
i'm not sure what i'll say

posted by Emilie  # 10:25 AM 0 comments

this blackness on blankness, the pelvic floor
is like a trampoline in my mind; words you

put together jumble around and twitch. what is
that feeling when the elevator moves

suddenly, or when the phone says i like you?
we've moving upward. we're moving downward.

we've moving at a rapid pace. it's good to have
these small buckles, but the ride requires

you to lose those shoes. take my glasses, i can't
see. is it tomorrow or next year i'll say

i love you? serifs nudge my body, tease
something like an orgasm, more words fall out

posted by Emilie  # 7:35 PM 0 comments

is it the fear? the feeling from jane eyre
that we are strung rib to rib when we share
experiences. that the woman in the tower

is me. that the woman in the tower is my
madness, and that you will find it.
is it fear? in an episode of the outer limits

that you will strangle me, not knowing
it's me you're strangling? that i look
much uglier, really, than you realize.

i worry we're cross-genre and who will
buy that? i'm almost certain this piece
is brilliant and also that i love you or

could love you on thursday. need the carnal
electricity to power all of minneapolis,
frankenstein's monster but understood

posted by Emilie  # 4:44 AM 0 comments

after thousands
of lines, do you know
me (a little), i'm afraid

the next time we see
each others' eyes, it could be
too much. knowledge

has a way of shooting
or lying leaden in our
fingers when we use them--

or the beating thing
could stop; our chests
work like magnets.

after thousands of lines,
what happens to our bodies
when they pull apart? when they meet

posted by Emilie  # 12:59 PM 0 comments

i'm starting to see
that i fill
white space. you are

a line to
me, form
perception. connectedness

seems to be. the dots
for adults start as
a whole picture:

take information,
                         ,
fall in love.

posted by Emilie  # 3:14 PM 0 comments

i keep falling asleep. you break
your hand repeatedly, usually on something
hard, when you look at me. even

in dreams, i feel the tether of self
restraint. i know you don't want me
to show concern over you. you won't

take these painkillers, hold your limb
under ice. its unnaturally warm here
and my eyes won't stay open.

posted by Emilie  # 2:13 PM 0 comments

the difference between having a hand
and not having a hand, the years when i loved
your religious passions and now

other than the cemetery, it's that palm
sunday with your parents and my quiet consuming fear.
it hurts my eyes to visualize

how i might have killed myself if we had
gotten married. it's better for you to believe
in god and for me to believe

in bones and stone. i think we saw the names together
but read different texts, i see generations
where you see the alphabet. after a while,

i count infant markers

posted by Emilie  # 2:26 AM 0 comments

you're a slot machine
and i keep giving
like it's christmas

yet you're the handle puller
you keep my insides
spinning

when i wake up, my heart
feels like a bucket
of quarters, heavy

and i keep giving
like i don't have carpal tunnel
like i won't feel empty after

posted by Emilie  # 2:06 AM 0 comments

at recess, you pick up
an unlit cigarette: we raise it
to our lips.

i have stolen something, not
noticed if it is wrong. your mother
told my mother

we are threatening
the other girls.

my mother heard
from shannon's mother
that you told shannon
you would beat her

up. she has eaten
a hole in the lining of her stomach.

i was teaching her
to hold the neck
of the violin.

Labels: less rough

posted by Emilie  # 10:08 PM 0 comments

you say i don’t know
what to say before thinking
about it. when i am upset

for unknown reasons, this is
concrete: i hear each footfall
you are not making. a rabbit darts

behind a large elm tree from the street
and we feel that way. there is no place.
the streetlights flicker on

like searchlights when we pass them.
why are we always walking
on these pathways? why not take the grass

posted by Emilie  # 8:43 PM 0 comments

we do it together
we don’t have time
for books

not together not
anymore, what’s this
premise for a foundation

a set of shared
experiences behind
a screen. your girlfriend’s

coming. i’ll see her
to the door
willingly

close-minded
when emotions are involved.
i’ll waste some time

posted by Emilie  # 5:32 PM 0 comments

you are a foreign
language i’ve learned and
of which my knowledge has
atrophied with disuse. i can say

“i" but cannot
conjugate everyday verbs:
to work, to eat, to read

to write, to watch television. your life
lingers in muscle memory, and
while i remember "tomorrow,"
i cannot interpret it

and while i can feel
your tears i don’t
understand them anymore.

posted by Emilie  # 5:25 PM 0 comments

spasms bubble; it’s been
years. deaths happen
every day and somehow i still

appreciate a pillow
more than a pen. with green ink
you have traced the boundaries

of my back; inside the outline
there is a mosaic. you can feel the fault
lines when you touch me.

it’s been a long time since submersion.
i have good form but don't know how to breathe
properly, this chlorine

gets in my lungs. i only read
instruction manuals. i only write i’m sorry
when i’m sorry, which is always.

we always have five more
years, which makes nothing
or everything okay. it’s the economy.

i cannot pay you to fix my muscles
or to trim my hair, everything
reaches down to the earth and grows.

posted by Emilie  # 3:57 PM 0 comments

the bus arrives there
an hour early; three hours
until the “safe train” comes. the cta

scares when it’s dark
on the streets i pass
a woman who screams

hostilely. i have turned
my back to the blue line, stomp
decisively towards olgivie.

a police officer stands
in the entry and donuts are
inside. fear. compare the costs

of wait and travel time,
of money and anxiety
of meeting my mother a moment earlier

i am insecure about my security.
this donut is delicious.do you agree,
other lollygaggers and your books?

posted by Emilie  # 8:07 PM 0 comments

he thrusts his weight into
the word, striking the sea
of cedar like a bell,

his diaphragm a
mallet. this stop
must be important: ce/dar,

ce/dar, ce/dar, like waves
crash into us. in an instant
his mouth a plain pucker, a cigarette

waiting for the bus
to stop - a light for the end.
with a lurch he is

off, leaving
a headache and the memory
of the cedar sea

posted by Emilie  # 2:28 PM 0 comments

wake up with something dense
rolling inside, making balance

and movement difficult. it is not
unlike being bloated 

before breakfast. these dreams 
you do not wake from move the snow

globe world, everything
false. everything to the ground violently 

violently
shaken. ball bearings inside

mix ink and insides. should have closed
the book

before bed. the three
a.m. storm and in the morning, eyes

Labels: less rough

posted by Emilie  # 2:20 PM 0 comments

if i were not breathing i could hear
your breathing. unplug the electrical cords,

they power noises. quiet is impossible
to find in games of hide and seek.

if it is friday, i will send you a
text message letting you know. without

these words, we're useless. what is the weekend for
if not wasting? the sound of pages turning

is the sound of sticks breaking underfoot.
if i could hold my breath, you would

get your voice back. instead i'll sing to
the power strip. oh holy chat box

Labels: less rough

posted by Emilie  # 1:51 AM 0 comments

these twist pins i take apart,
rewire as someone voices instructions
concerning colored wires. the electric

current. two men ask for help
from two men, and together
they hoist a heavy light.

(when no one is looking i touch
the heavy-duty clamps. this fixture
we don't need to handle with our hands.)

my arms reach to move another
lighter instrument to bend
light. chris touches

his fingers to a flat surface,
and somewhere above the stage
several hundred

pounds and thousand
dollars mechanically turn
like heads

craning to catch the motion
of some long anticipated
bus

posted by Emilie  # 1:38 AM 0 comments

the hard a of complain
weighs on my tongue

counting a high number
of past pastimes

memories with sand
paper like flooring

pass an invisible line
marked by a lack

of inventiveness: this
represents youth and

the present is always
the past. the hard a of

crap makes a man point
a finger. i can tell

you used to live in chicago.
you’re looking backwards

at his shoes and trying
not to fall behind

Labels: less rough

posted by Emilie  # 1:19 AM 0 comments

here: take your phone out of your pocket. i'll
make notes in ink on this calendar. we make plans
as though we will continue to make plans.

there may be skewed expectations between us. you eat
with dozens of people; i can count my friends
in your eyes. the silence between the disappearance

of menus and the arrival of plates is shallow
although i could measure our words
with a rain gauge. if we don't get married,

i will take a long breath to reset. this will or will not be
one of life's major disappointments. i can subsist
on less than conversation. it feeds me to look at you

Labels: adam thinks this is done

posted by Emilie  # 2:02 AM 0 comments

you broke your hand, but you have another. 
always keep a machete under your bed.

***

it will never be the right time to perform seppuku.
it will never be the right time to re-read the bell jar.

***

the bobby pin you carry behind your ear is a weapon. 
the journal that you write in is full of lies.

***

a swiss army knife is not a switchblade. 
a switchblade is not a chisel, is not for sculpture.

***

bob dylan whispers in your ear.
your hand knows what force to put behind the puck.

Labels: less rough

posted by Emilie  # 1:21 AM 0 comments

you cut the tie line, but there's still the safety cable; it's just not pretty 
now that the cords are not in line 
with the straight pipes.

use your hand to loosen the bolt: the c-clamp will hang on. 
hollow pipes want this weight 
and gravity will hold it.

some of the light is heavy with pattern, put into sharp focus before the barrel 
is drawn back. this bastard amber 
reminds me of the afternoon.

this is not a moving light. if you shake it, if it falls, there's still the safety cable; 
maybe lose a barn door. there are two lenses and
a reflector, and they just keep working fine.

posted by Emilie  # 4:46 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand. i wrote about it, eventually
thinking the words 'you broke your hand'
would be irrevocably attached to my name.

you might open a book sometime, not
admitting you care, but seeing this section
have a 'you're so vain' moment;

knowing under deep denial how i broke
before you broke your hand, and how you helped.
it will make reading these poems awkward

as fuck. i see your rationalization
like a dementor trying to suck
away the essence of my words.

towards the end you would see your name there,
as on a tombstone, and it will make comprehension
difficult for you. and i will feel sorry

for any small pain my words
place on you. and i will feel sorry for
myself, because you may never know

i am present if you need me. and i will feel
sorry that if you realize what i offered,
it will be after we've both made do

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 2:40 AM 0 comments

the small children inside us unconsciously
breathe. it's this that feels
like happiness: not the running but the moment afterwards, as our chests

heave. it's not that we make contact
but that we let go. you're it. run to me.
whenever we stumble, it is respite.

the adolescents inside us hyper-consciously
touch. it's danger of electric shock
that tempts us: fear of what happens afterwards, when

it's over. it's not that we make contact
but whether or not we will let go.
whenever we stumble, we hope someone catches us.

our pasts are quiet puppeteers, move
our limbs, press on the bellows
as we exhale. it's not the future that drives us

forward. it's not that we make contact
but that we watch our steps. we are surrounded
by mines. we stumble, but don't like to fall anymore.

posted by Emilie  # 11:13 PM 0 comments

absence takes up more space
than any body can fill

lyrics lack when
the music is gone

the notes aren't
without rest.

ghosts like toxic gas
diffuse in human containers:

your absence takes up more space
than anybody can fill.

when a friend has left
for the night or forever

the body is bloated, could be 
a buoy for some ship to sea

posted by Emilie  # 1:29 AM 0 comments

i know we've had conversations. i was there. 
they are like alphabet soup, verbs
in my mind: moving, crashing

bumper-car office chairs. the games we made
are best when i come at you running. you are quiet:
i am quieted. you are made of

magic. if you and i shared
space and time, i might know you.
understand. this is not how it is with other people.

posted by Emilie  # 1:20 AM 0 comments

in summation: don't have sex
with someone you want to have sex
with, someone who wants to have sex
with you. maybe it means something

to someone, and it means sex
to someone else. something amazing
is going to happen, and then someone
will flatten under another someone's

body. the body is not just the body
to someone. the body is a representation.
sex is not sex to someone, it is a shared
space. the space is internal. the space

fills the universe. the space joins
everything living. the space is god
when god does not. the space is where the soul
goes. and sex is not for filling empty spaces

Labels: whedon

posted by Emilie  # 12:35 AM 0 comments

a number of desires. it's true i can't
teach you to open doors. when i ask to come inside, there's the sound
of a deadbolt. i have never been truly afraid
of freezing to death, before. these matches

do not reveal god. these matches will not warm your hands; my own hands
are warm from the breath i imagine comes under the gap. no one knows
wherein the house you live. i suspect you look through the keyhole,
but not when i'm looking in. from time to time i speak, and

maybe you hear me. i cannot breathe this brief fire. alone,
my body heat is escaping. perhaps you feel it like a fever. i know
the knob is hot, but it's your space which houses the potential
backdraft, and though the lack of oxygen is dangerous, i'm willing

Labels: lit

posted by Emilie  # 11:44 PM 0 comments

like each other
acknowledge it
state your intentions
handshake
fuck that shit
hug
drink something
play a game
but not with words
laugh
express concern
emote, a little
eat something
sit in the awkward moment
but not for too long

posted by Emilie  # 1:38 AM 0 comments

you broke your hand, you considered me
broken. you dropped what was taut
between us; a dramatic exercise,

an imaginary line fell below eye level.
i have other friends; we're going to go
shop for guitar strings. your immobile hand
can't make the chords. my heart slams on

the wall of my chest, wanting
sonic waves where there is a broken
bow. i know you know things, just

not what you know. we've both been part of this
orchestra; we don't share a stand.
i still love how you

love the sound. i keep taking
these lessons,
but my muscles haven't learned to relax yet

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 7:09 PM 0 comments

when i'm happy, i have nothing
to say.

my ankle has twisted many times
stepping off a higher plane

onto the ground. i love what i think
is the sound of your thinking

about me. imagine
the sound of reading

while walking, or rocking
to guitars with eyes

closed. when i'm happy,
i'm full of potential

injury. the sound of a bone
breaking is louder than the sound of a smile.

posted by Emilie  # 1:47 AM 0 comments

the aimless bike rides are good.
the talking to you in my head -- that you
who doesn't really exist --

it's hard to think of you
rounded out, it hurts
even when your voice is

lyrics on repeat. i can handle
the instrumental underlying
my paced breathing. it's the true you

who catches my breath. the muscles in my
neck are sore
from all this swallowing. all this being

awake. the aimless bike rides take
me somewhere, sometimes take
hours. one word which comes

from you takes me
back
so many miles

posted by Emilie  # 12:59 AM 0 comments

we can have everything
in common but never finish

a loop.

it's in my body, whatever
screams at you

and tries to claw out, like so many science fiction horror stories.

when the winter comes, it requires slow
steps to keep from slipping.

i think there is dry ice inside
and when you exhale, there is always smoke.

i know it's cold, but it's sexy.

and when there is a passion
we both don't believe in it.

and when there is a passion
i could be a vampire.
and when there is science
i could be a zombie.

and when there is a passion
you will be human.
and where there is science
you are as brain.

and when you are human
it will not be for me.

posted by Emilie  # 3:01 PM 0 comments

you know what i hate? the way you make me
feel. i would love to
stop your mouth

                           your typing fingers, remove

writing utensils. graphite is dangerous, it fills
the blood. your lungs

                                  are full of alphabet. my lungs
exhale caustic

commentary. it stings to breathe
the same air
or i could stop

my senses, ears and eyes, make you
remote.
            it is around this time that i hold

                                                              you

                                                              or the space
around you

posted by Emilie  # 2:32 PM 0 comments

it's this election, the warm feelings i have
for you - i've been holding my breath, and now
we can let go. i could squeeze you until we
feel alive. across but not across town, we're

full of joy, pride for this place.

some days it is high school. why i have to defend
the basic rights of others
is beyond me. why we have to re-post posters
ripped down from the wall. what are you trying

to say, exactly? but some days are this morning, this late night:
we can finally sleep
easier. have a dream

that in the future, this will all be okay.

posted by Emilie  # 2:58 AM 0 comments

all of these strangers are holding
my heart. yes, we're happy, Obama

makes another good speech, but Minnesota,
how do you sleep? it makes me

want to post youtube videos. it makes me
want to fill with alcohol. it makes me
want to have 'it's a wonderful life' powers,
'a christmas carol' powers. if this passes,

there will be no Christmas.

posted by Emilie  # 12:52 AM 0 comments

you know what i hate? the way you make me
feel. i would love to
stop your mouth

                           your typing fingers, remove

writing utensils. graphite is dangerous, it fills
the blood. your lungs

                                  are full of alphabet. my lungs
exhale caustic

commentary. it stings to breathe
the same air
or i could stop

my senses, ears and eyes, make you
remote.
            it is around this time that i hold

                                                              you

                                                              or the air
around you

posted by Emilie  # 8:30 PM 0 comments

a man whistles to his dog. with this ballot,
i thee wed. my beloved is america, is in this tomb. it's unclear
if we're going to make it. if we don't leave this bed 
tomorrow, for a honeymoon or for a grave.

posted by Emilie  # 12:52 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand and it hurt me: the story and my
imagination. talking to you is like talking to every film
character who has ever been more than two dimensional.
talking to you is like talking to every book i have
ever loved. talking to you is like talking to the dead.

you broke your hand and didn't realize it. my bones
are in tact and have never known plaster. my bones imagine
that they would cry if they met Fracture. my bones know
in their bones that they would be immediately aware,
if they were broken. my bones feel they should have known your bones.

you broke your hand and i kept forgetting: it made me feel
like the worst friend. being an individual, thinking
of myself above you. it's wrong to think that
loving someone means putting their needs ahead of yours.
it's this oxygen mask. we both put on our own.

you broke your hand and that's all: your hand is broken.
you take care, people write on your body, time passes,
your hand is a hand again. it's sick, i've always wanted
to be broken like this -- in public. exterior injuries
elicit sympathy and conversation. covered eyes and "oh fuck" do not.

you broke your hand and i want to know what it feels like.
i want to compare our thresholds for pain. i want to know how it rides
inside your body. is everything different? i think everything
must be different. the way our synapses fire, our sexual organs,
our unshared histories. how is your heart

you broke your heart and i don't know about it. i only know
it must be true. i make the assumption
that you are human, that when we both breathe it is
conversation. that if i reserve these words, eventually
you will say something, and not all of it lies

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 12:26 AM 0 comments

you broke your hand on a sponge;
i broke my tongue on a bookend.

we shake our bodies.
we shake, but with head nods.

movement is subtler than before. it's hard for you to understand
when my arms engulf you like a great fish.

the ship is on the ocean;
the ocean is in a sponge.
the earth is rather small.

movement is subtler than before. it's hard for you
to stand still and not be seasick.

we shake our heads.
we shake, to say no.

i broke my tongue on your name;
you broke your hand on my hand.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 11:37 PM 0 comments

it's good, the music
grows with you

when the phone rings, you don't
always pick it up
like when you were a child

your roommate talks to your cat. to herself. sings.
you're "too old" for a roommate.

friends who are close
by are also quiet

it's good, the music
says it for you

and what the music says
ch-ch-changes

posted by Emilie  # 11:01 PM 0 comments

you broke. your hand held on
to the metal rail. your body will not
fall below the ground. a message is relayed:

your mother is dead. you do not understand
how bridges work. the rail is unreal,
like your hands and all of the elements.

no one notices
the set of matryoshka dolls
forming around you.

you head is not always proportional
to your body. your painted exterior
is smooth and does not know how

to make a fist. it's hard to hold on
without hands. these bodies around you
make you feel heavy, like an anchor.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 3:31 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand when asked. it's this kind of devotion
that scares most people. if i were to give you poisonous berries

you would know better than to take them. something about these games
pushes us together.  it's not just chemicals or eyes.

if this were for life or death, and it is, you would
take arrows but would not pretend to love me. if i were

someone else, a better hunter or gatherer? this magic is medicine. 
this broth is broth. this cave is temporary. these injuries will go.

Labels: lit, you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 1:28 AM 0 comments

i am looking for a job. it doesn't
hurt my feelings when you point out
i've got no direction. you are turning 

into a straight line or arrow
whose point is boring
into my chest: the concave area

where my floating ribs open
from the sternum. sometimes i feel
like taking a bone from my body

when i want to touch you. you are looking
for a job, but harder than i am. we
recognize this. the drive you have is larger.

it is too late to apologize
for words we might have exchanged
like malfunctioning christmas poppers.

posted by Emilie  # 12:35 AM 0 comments

in other news: i'm awesome, these people are
awesome. i still hope to be famous
after i am dead. like everyone else

the slow motion segment of a busy street scene
is me. a cinematographer is thinking about
sylvia plath, about the word hullaballoo.

i am going to stop sharing my favorite words
with strangers. giving a boy the dictionary
is like giving away your heart.

giving away your heart is like asking
to be punched in the face. most girls don't want
to watch edward norton and brad pitt

fight. i like films where a man is followed
by the rain. in other news: this party is
the only party i have ever been invited to.

i still hope to be popular after school.
like everyone else. i regret quitting
the violin. if you know how to play

the piano, please teach me to play
the accordion. we all make chords when we sigh.
you know, you're pretty

fascinating. i know, i talk a lot.
it's the silence that's uncomfortable.
it's the silence that you have to bury yourself in.

posted by Emilie  # 12:23 AM 1 comments

i forget all recent moments.
there are no photographs.

i'm telling you how to get
to this place.

you reveal i took you here
in your twenties.

it's a struggle to read
what's not on the internet.

it fills the silences 
where memory should be.

posted by Emilie  # 11:48 PM 0 comments

we converse about words which sound
like sinking.

we are best when dreary.
we are talking about "straits" and shirley jackson.

your father sent me a poem
which is not by frank o'hara, and i haven't read it.

you send me a poem
about vampires. everything is about vampires nowadays.

strait. if this word is right, we are in
college, i mean in love.

posted by Emilie  # 11:37 PM 0 comments

the screen door opens and breathing
(the right kind) is learned by your muscles.
there's a cold breeze coming in. it hits
the back of your neck like memories
of singing to strangers in cultish churches,
as though your siren voice could fix jesus'

blind league. it's not your place to close
the door; you just paid your three dollars to sit
in the internet with a pot of tea. you know
you're a fraud, right? you've had gallons
of water steeped these two months. you never
liked this before. suddenly, facebook

is the only place you know. where exactly
did you live before? pack up this home and
put the lights on your bicycle. like all
rituals, it takes too long and no one is
watching. you try so hard 
to be bright. you try so hard to be bright.

posted by Emilie  # 11:11 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand; it will be difficult
to keep your status in rubik's cube

circles. while you're out getting
plastered, i break into your space

to put the puzzles into boxes.
the need to catalog is in my unbroken

bones. i am trying to assign subject headings
to the conversations you and i have had

but the text is missing a third
person omniscient narrator. speculation

is not my job. my job will be difficult.
conversation could help, but it never does.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 9:48 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand, but you have another.
always keep a machete under your bed.

***

it will never be the right time to perform seppuku.
it will never be the right time to re-read the bell jar.

***

the bobby pin you carry behind your ear is a weapon.
the journal that you write in is full of lies.

***

a swiss army knife is not a switchblade.
a switchblade is not a chisel, is not made for sculpture.

***

bob dylan whispers in your ear.
your hand knows what force to put behind the puck.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 8:59 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand after using it
to tell me we are avoiding each other
now. if i decide to believe in
fate, then i'll decide that this is

kismet. i don't believe in god, but
in my mind are the hands of all the dead
buried in the earth. nothing holds them
together; their hands are all pieces.

if they were not broken, they would
applaud this performance you and i have been
putting on. but they do not exist as god
does not exist. i breathe into them, using the air

to say their names, using my fingers
to spell their names. i seek out the graves
which have your and my names. nothing holds them
together except the alphabet and my voice

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 8:34 PM 0 comments

You broke your hand; I'm pretty sure
it's my fault because I wished something bad.

My mother broke her back, but I
stepped in all the right places.

None of my bones have fractures.
These organs are compressed.

My heart is always racing. It makes me fear
the possible side-effects of medication.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 8:16 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand when asked. it's this kind of devotion
that scares most people. if i were to give poisonous berries to you

you would know better than to take them. there's something about these games
that pushes us together, and it's not just chemicals or eyes.

if we happened to be in a life or death situation, which we are,
you would take arrows but you would not pretend to love me. if i were

someone else, a better hunter or gatherer? this magic is medicine.
this broth is broth. this cave is temporary. these injuries will go.

Labels: lit, you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 5:05 PM 0 comments

you broke your handbell. the clapper hits
the inside, goes thunk. i am studying

the practice of relaxing
my upper body. even when i'm sick, the sound

rings the way my heart used to sing
when your shoulder pushed into mine.

we used to play these handbells
together. even when i'm good, these few

notes are not enough. the music i make
is wanting, misses a particular

tone. it's pure, but lacks
harmony. and even discord is beautiful.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 2:55 PM 0 comments

you = broke, your hand = pressing on my panic
attack button. if this were real life,
i would hug you, and you would feel

strangled. you = broke, your keyboard = playing
notes to me unawares. if you were cognizant, you would
close the computer and put your foot down

on the damper pedal. as a child, my parents said
i take care of others so
well. as an adult, our mothers = broken, my father's

advice: you can't keep trying to fix things. you
broke your hand; these bones
will heal. it's the parts we can't cover

in plaster which are difficult
to locate. if we were together, we might
say hello in polite company before running

towards the closet. i'm crawling with missing limbs. pick me
up: i have enough pieces remaining to recreate
life. pressing on, this panic attack.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 2:15 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand on my chest
-plate. i put the suit on 
before you could say 'distance;'
tony stark would be proud.

this power source isn't clean
and i can tell i'm shutting down. denial
is essential to resolution, just ask
a superhero. science always works

with outright rejection
to offers of assistance. real men
dance through the movement of one limb.
you could put that thing on ice,

but it already is. the catalytic converter
you broke is broken. you broke 
your hand; this palladium is poisoning
me. this power source isn't clean.

Labels: marvel, you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 12:34 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand and left it there,
with the boulder. the boulder is named sylvester
and wants to help, but rock is immobile

until you push it. sometimes gravity is
stronger than the nudge of your toe or
your full weight on this pulley system.

potential energy is scarier than kinetic energy.
potential energy doesn't think
about friction: it just waits. sylvester

hears your swearing, your self-
composure, but cannot reply. boulders lack
what few communication skills humans have.

your hand cannot talk anymore. the fingers
are immobile and cannot say your name.
this is the worst thing that could ever happen

to you. it seems every word you want to say
requires two of these, and you
are only ever going to have one.

Labels: lit, you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 11:12 AM 0 comments

the man who might have been says there is no paperwork.
you and i sign anyway. the dragons blow
smoke signals to our parents, who disapprove

of legality, of marriage, of happiness, of
sacrilege. your mother fights my mother
in unarmed combat; your mother is pinned down

by your father as though she is Thumbelina
and he is a mole. my mother melts, leaving
a list of improvements i should make to my personality.

the dragons fly our fathers to remote locations.
the dragons disregard our paperwork
but not the one ring

which rules us. the man who might have been says
there is no 'you' here; you and i disagree, shoot him
full of arrows. it's true, i have never

seen your face. the west wind carried me
from the mountaintop. if i had sisters, they would chide me
for my belief in magic. if i had sisters, they would bring me

lamplight to look on you by. but
i don't, and i won't. i'll close my eyes, it's
so very bright here in the daytime.

posted by Emilie  # 12:53 AM 0 comments

you broke your hand. it proves you can break; i was told
by the hum made of everyone. i'm transparent and can't see
with these invisible eyes. an older gentleman at the counter

looks through me. at night, it's difficult being made
of glass. all my friends are vampires and
find me uninteresting; they don't see themselves.

i am made of reflections. at night, humans lose
their features; everyone sounds like you. under the hum
made of everyone, i feel the heat you make while

breathing. all the world is vampires and
finds you fascinating. i know if you touched this
glass -- oh, thermal conduction! -- i might die again

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 8:42 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand playing with a slinky 
on a staircase. i fetched the pail

of water for your mother 
in labor, stepped over your small crying

form. the hot metal
scorched my thigh, a purple pain

imprinted there. you're an adult: 
kiss all these injuries

like a good doctor. cough. now 
cough again. the baby won't live

for long. i have to let you know 
these games are timeless: even if your plastic

glows in the dark while my sharp
metal keeps its kinks, entanglement

is inevitable. the stairs will always be
dangerous, and there will always be stairs.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 6:32 PM 0 comments

you broke
your hand, my head is going
to explode, and it's killing me
that i'm not tearing

down the basement. my hands are idle,
twitching in the passive 
air; my head is going to fall 
onto this sticky surface. you

broke your hand before i could 
touch it. your hands 
twitch in the active
electric space i've made

between us. the basement is dark
and you don't belong, although
i invite you down. it's dirty
down here. we mess around

with other people's psyches. 
i'm sinking into my own head
space; you're breaking your
self, demanding distance.

it goes unsaid: don't fill this
space with energy,
hope or smiles, flowers
or wishes for a speedy recovery

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 6:29 PM 0 comments

I told Don I was going to write "like twenty poems" beginning "you broke your hand," and that's unrealistic, but I'm going to start counting.

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 4:57 PM 0 comments

you broke your hand, my heart
aches every time i don't

tell you to take care
of yourself. if i tried to do it

it would hurt somebody. our mutual friends
say your name out loud: jabs between

the shoulder blades alternate the rough 
blows with pin-pricks. i feel them all

intensely. it's this fucking
intensity! like a wall

of sound, it makes it hard for us to hear
each other. i have never cried

over you -- this goes too deep. something
is shut down inside, and i want

to stop
wanting

Labels: you broke your hand

posted by Emilie  # 12:11 AM 0 comments

emily describes the place i don't want to be
as 'the muck,' and says i need to learn to sit
in it. i realize that i like words

to be concrete. i restrain feelings like ink
in a pen until i stop holding up. now you're drowning
in the black sea, and i'm sorry. here's a space

or period to float on.

posted by Emilie  # 8:08 PM 0 comments

space exists, i know that
nothing is not nothing

and while we do not talk
i feel you breathing

on my ear. the stars exist;
i will never see them

the way space sees them.
i will never know you

the way space knows you. i
know that. while we do not

talk, you breathe and i
practice breathing. so far

i self-suffocate, try to hold
onto air. sing these assigned

love songs, make my body panic.
wonder and wonder and wonder

about everything
i cannot see.

posted by Emilie  # 7:58 PM 0 comments