Kindle Notes & Highlights
Confuse me, ovulate me, spoon-feed me longing.
Your face regularly sliced up by the moving frames of car windows.
Surface has no depth but all depth has this surface. Not on purpose. So math, not metaphor, works.
It’s so even-steven, yet so fractal and Möbius. Yet hagborn. Yet digital.
It’s an invisible bend in the lightsticks, it’s a prophecy.
Each question leads to an iceburn, a snownova, a single bed spinning in space.
Millions of privacies to bless us with snow.
Aren’t we human dark with sugar hot to melt it?
Eating too much: the emperor of being used.
Nature, mature and feminized, naturalizes me naturally by creating the feeling of being a natural woman, like a sixteen-year-old getting knocked up again.
No reward, no news, no truth. It’s too sad to be so ordinary every day. Like some kind of employee.
This pink, synthetic honey spoiling the tea of my life, already steeped into a stupor.
It seemed our legs were tangled but how tangled could they be, four numb posts holding our bodies up against the large dark night of each other? That weight.
Your hands find me where there is no science, only precision.
The message is: there is never enough, though we celebrate the hoax of boundlessness.
Three summers like any other three summers: aren’t they long and dayful with traintrips to the sea edge and free legs?
A full year stolen by mosquitoes.
I bought a dress that was so extravagantly feminine you could see my ovaries through it.
The story exists even when there are no witnesses, kissers, tellers. Because secrets secrete, and these versions tend to be slapstick, as if in a candy factory the chocolate belted down the conveyor too fast or everyone turned sideways at the same time by accident.
Because nothing is truly forgotten and loved.
You must stack stories from the foundation up.
Language is architecture, after all, not an air capsule, not a hang glide. This is real life. So don’t invite anyone to a house that hasn’t been built.
But, I’d like to talk with you about other things, in absolute quiet. In extreme context. To see you again, isn’t love revision? It could have gone so many ways. This just one of the ways it went. Tell me another.
Certain loves were perfect in the daytime and had every right to express carnally behind the copy machine and there are no hard feelings for the boozy sodomy and sorry XX daisy chain, whenever it felt right for you.
why the big sense of the world, wrong before you, shrugs but somewhere grasps your spinning, stunning, alone. But you have me.
If not so cloaked with the desire to be the ravishing little transparency, I’d have seen the autumn for what it is: just scrambled math and nipples.
But now huge on the bed, the sheet one quivery flake of baklava, your sleep beats me utterly underneath.
Your feet are the most curiously square cathedral whores science can prove, taking you from me, with exquisite archery to the next curve, hysterical exile.
Hurting you vaporizes me, which is why I love others.
I’ll go anywhere to leave you but come with me. All the cities are like you anyway.
We’d rut a ditch by a river in nights so long they must be cut by the many pairs of wrong-handled scissors maybe god owns and doesn’t share.
I make a haunted lake and rinse and rinse.
Disappointment isn’t tender, dried and wide instead.
The ship made you sad, and the ferry, and canoe. All boats do.
I hid your life vest in the death trap on purpose, my love.
My answers, thrice tripled, looped back around to the natural sounds of just forgetting, of the tenderly adjusted.
All seemed collapsible into one sentence, which I hope you can read into: I’m sorry.
Throw your body over the many-storied ledge again, to prove you can’t undo it. And further, wouldn’t. Won’t.
Tell me a new story, one you don’t know the middle of. There’s only so much I can take, that’s the mistake. And I take it back, I’m not sorry. Not sorry at all.
Memory, that disco light, makes for some unforgettable songs, until morning.
We only make this love work because we work for it, like a wage, an art. We are only each other’s because the day is long.
Maybe when we’re in the same nursing home, neighbors again after decades apart, surprised at our homing instinct.
I’ll always be the same woman you loved, this woman I no longer am, I’ll be her and re-be her because I can’t replace myself.
no matter how many lovers she, her body, and I have, only you know the curvature that stops your heart, that’s the truth of it,
Your bruises will be museum-quality Ming Dynasty frog-blossoms uprooting your veins.
The shoulder curves in Möbius. Where convex collapses concave it is without formality, only form.
Between navel and genitals there is almost nothing, hairwise. Free forgotten parking space.
Oh, to be ready for it, unfucked, ever-fucked.
I must be someone with very short arms to have lost you, to be checking the windows of the pawnshop renting space in my head, which pounds with all the clarity of a policeman on my southernmost door.
Prowling the living room for the lightning, just one more shock, to bring my slow purity back.
