to talk about children seems suffocating now.
bubbles and steel. bubbles and steel. bubbles and steel.
i was placed into a dryer once, to spin round and de-wrinkle myself, to be moist-less and air-pocketed, to be clean and lean. then, taken out and hung up to dry, imagining drowned babies and damp yellow hats. all the people i know are pregnant.
to talk about children seems repetitive now.
boy, girl, boy, girl.
in the morning, the day will return to its technicolor existence.
i was part of a ceiling fan once, to be at the whims of an on/off switch, to be the yellow-brown blades forgotten to the dust, to be shaky and loose. then, replaced by an wall unit air conditioner. all bellies are stretched from pregnancy and burritos.
run-ons, not married, separated, taking
care, and not cheating.
but theres a rumbling in my lowlands
He wanted to be a man. He didnt want to be inferior to no body.
to talk about children is manifest.
this is not a very lyrical poem, whistles in the dark
sometimes it gets into my skull,
i have to tell you the silence is oppressive,
i can't enumerate the miseries
i am not so literal as that.
i will not give this woman that i love the
ghost of a self.
there is a point where one's eyes become
noodles that look like ties, or family on white bread
tan buildings always remind me of home.
(but, then again, that last one's pretty literal.)
and i remember when i told my mother
like a sandwich, i said.
i ate that miracle food
i took that inventory
i'd been snacking on apricot and plum jelly,
where's that whole fruit?
(when i eat in the morning, i'm hungry all day.)
it's kind of like when you cover up a week-old
stench with a pile of clean clothes, laundry.
but i'd still like to see Orlando's ankle.
i found a hotel room
and i met her there.
like they do in the movies.
but i'm not a man,
i can't remember the number on the door,
|Photo taken and edited by Matthew Straw. More of his photography can be found here: http://www.thenewhumanist.com/Matthew%20Straw.htm|