thirty day poetry challenge
day 06– ‘my charger‘
was sometimes a wattpad boy (and I mean that ironically
and also unironically) — who wanted to go to Heaven now
rather than later, because it seemed better
than whatever else; I don’t know if that really counts
as wanting to kill myself, he
said; but I was listing, the car the radio the great
silence of the cornfields blowing onto us, as he
talked — and my charger is/was sometimes
the cut of autumn light, all yellow and holy, like
a Fitzgerald novel before everything goes to
shit. and it is reading Vonnegurt naked
listening to Jewel, of course, who else — these foolish
games / who is gonna save
your soul — not me, sorry, I did
try and I know you tried to save
mine, thanks –and it is also waking up in my own body,
after an episode, now de-possseded and suddenly interested
in small things like
self-improvement or writing or
showering; my window is jailhouse shaped and
always hovering, a grey ghost, just above
the books slathered over the floor and the cut
of the gate — the fence — the sky — reminding
me to leave, escalate my body, ram Jewel
and all the memories into my stomach and descend
violently — upon life, shrieking and existing
like a spinning mad bird.
the last pavilion 