Remember to Forget-NaPoWriMo-Day 29

I remember the heat of my carseat in the sun-soaked Miami drive, the tightness in my hands, with the sensation of crashing into a car at every turn.

I remember when I used to fall in love easily. When I held onto you and you did too, for a long time. We would be out in the park’s balcony sometimes and eating greens. Or smoking it.

I remember when I used to like to swim. Once, younger, I dreamt that I could reach the deep end. I don’t swim anymore. Not because I don’t like the water covering my face, the gleam drinking my face. No, it felt good. The deep felt good. Now it’s because I can reach the deep end. Now the burn of sun comes closest to the fathomless edge.

I remember drinking my gut out. Or not. Snippets of my body inhaling cups of incineration. Nothing next except the feeling of flying in a taxi cab and then a sudden punch in the stomach. And the heavy vomit everywhere.

I remember. No, wait. I forgot. I always forget to remember. The small things. Gifts. Remembering how to act like a whole person sometimes. Remember to open your mouth when speaking. Remember to close your mouth when eating. Remember, remember, remember. Remember all these rules. Then forget them again.


Horoscope Chanting Goddess-NaPoWriMo-Day 28

The women marked a horoscope
on her wrist. Geminate fingers listed
the comet-quick fate: inevitable— that
campfire singing flames, and the intonation
of a song coming out of her mouth, two
voices from twin jaws chanting until
her figure begins to transform into an
eternal ephemerality, a goddess touching
her temples, her cheek, her lips.

Her temples, her cheek, her lips.
Eternal ephemerality, a goddess touching
her figure, begins to transform into
voices from twin jaws chanting until
a song comes out of her mouth, two
campfires singing flames, and the intonation,
the comet-quick fate: inevitable— that
on her wrist. Geminate fingers listed—
The women marked a horoscope.

Drink, Sink, Swallow- NaPoWriMo-Day 27

Foam at the mouth of the ocean. Driving through glass sandpaper surface
of breath. I remember it, the blankness of force underneath myself.
The walk of water too easy, I had to stroke the breast, breath of tide.
Tied. Uncertain of how to leave the body without a drink of sink.
The taste of brine, zest that shouldn’t go down so smoothly, but still does
and I start to pant, to find the break in the crest, to savor the pleasure
of an oncoming orgasmic euphoria, having to rush under a splendor
that drains the mouth, a gargle of resignation, maybe. More likely
a call to the mouth of the sea to swallow my drunk exhaustion, whole.

Drunk on a Locked-up Lullaby-NaPoWriMo-Day 24

Behind bars, I’m mental, menthol,
basket case encased in absinthe, aerial,
all-ears kind of awesome animal.
Ambrosia is an amber backstabber,
booze full of anxiolytic chill-out effects,
my appetite for aperitific strong in the
bastille, a freak flipping out in the cadence
of the silent isolation, a caesura, a caress
that makes me high and hyped, the fresh
breeze suddenly hitting on me, and the
celadon tint bubbling like champagne,
sucking me up in its drunk stupor, and
finally helping me to escape wonderful madness.

Remember to Bleed-NaPoWriMO-Day 23

To sacrifice, to bleed, to learn how to
breathe. Sleep means closing in on light, which is
to let go, offer suffering and chew
out doubt like the pit of a peach, fizz
more concentrated than grenadine–red
grenade foaming at mouth, the taste swel(l)-
tered, raw, intense. A lychee, fluid spread
of a mouth, sticky with saporous gel
trickling sacrifice in a cup. Warm wine
rosé, a cup full of roses, grape skin.
Skin. Cut. Blood. Cycle. Moon. Mine.
Rhythm of repeat. Drink. Bleed. Cede. Seep. Sin.
The rotation, periodicity, trace
of endless pain, seeping through a women’s base.