c0mpostpil3-blog

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your head backlit by roasted peanut butter sun is not a crown;

the interlocking roots of soybean corn fragile soil curiously shaped stones bottlecaps are not your wreath;

pesticide bitter kiss you on your warm babyskin forehead remember

this is not the path to the core of a patch of wildflowers;

the only monarchy here is orange black disappearing into the sticky summer sky let it sit on your finger drink sugar water;

your mycelium sprouts gills caps foam pushes up from underneath the damp forest floor you will find no throne here;

you too are a material destined for decomposition interpolation

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texts from grandma

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a woman walks out of the hospital bathroom

without washing her hands

i sit in the stall waiting on LTE internet

imagining emails

my dehydrated piss a coin in my

wish fulfillment fountain

flipping flipping twisting

a moebius strip lands on both sides

the off-white screen loads

and produces disappointment

I sit long enough to drip dry

wipe and wash

wave my hand for a strip of brown paper

back to the waiting room

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shaved ice summer midday the dog is barking out the car window looking with its voice for the shapes in the clouds we can’t see the colors we can’t perceive the smells our little nose hairs can’t catch you are taking a nap in the backseat of life no no time will not pass you by it will simply walk alongside you with its palm outspread a silent wish to hold your hand いっしょ when you are ready

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In six months time, this home will be gone. Rubble. And yet, here we are—playing house. The gradients of our silhouettes kissing at every intersection. In the kitchen, eggs are cooking.

The light falls into the bathroom just so and bounces around the concave bowl of the sink. A halo appears, encloses the crown of my head. Circular lightning.

An over-easy afternoon.

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the trees and bushes all alight in their shy fire

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to do

paint

nails call

mom find anxiety

meds read bible poems

emails and horoscope draw

tarot a shower get dressed

drop off letter prepare presentation sandwich

return library books pay fines bill subscriptions

upload photographs pick up flowers mascara tomatoes floor

practice guitar communication interpreting dreams find earrings wash bed

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what are you?

digital earthworms

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you are not a telephone

number perhaps

a death count

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melancholic memory foam

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we wrote about “something we’d struggled with”, a classmate who I’d never spoken to before ran up to me in the hallway. i remember his forehead was damp with sweat and his cheeks were flushed. he stood only a few inches shorter than me. i pulled out my earbuds and he said something along the lines of: “i don’t know you but i just felt the need to share what i wrote in class with you.” and he handed me his trauma narrative. that night, we began working on a phenomenology of our trauma. we sat in the public library until it closed – attempting to make sense of that which cannot be easily exhumed , yet demands to be felt. he put together this word map of how it feels to live with ptsd, which helped us to establish some level of organization for our paper.

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a girl who reached out to me. she’d just broken up with her first girlfriend. i didn’t quite know what to say.

we haven’t spoken since this exchange, but we still follow each other. peripheral interactions with each other’s internet presences. a like as a reassuring hand on one’s back.

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found on the rants & raves section of craigslist personals.

before pressure from FOSTA-SESTA resulted in craigslist removing their personals, the craigslist seeking tab was a rich compost of unrequited desire, externalizations of men’s aporia, the hands of anonymous queer people reaching out to each other (some not so friendly -- some wishing to squeeze rather than to hold, to control the boundary of the skin rather than to massage).

i particularly find myself drawn to the rants & raves tab underneath the craigslist personals. while the other tabs are interested in fostering connection, this tab is for outpourings of thoughts with no intended audience. the people posting in rants & raves are speaking directly to the abyss of the internet, to the collective unconscious. the tab is usually inhabited by lonely middled-aged men venting their frustrations about sports or thoughtful people sharing financial tips. this posting seemed to be an anomaly.

i have some strawberries that have gone sticky. could he revive them? or can he only extend their lifespan and delay the inevitable?

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we think of asking the trees what is to be done about art

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fever dream

tired of atlas the earth yawns and breaks into scorching flame

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windows and trophies