The Thing to Which the Thing That Is You Belongs (First Gander)

The sound of a name is a thing in itself, which takes shape in the mouth of the person who sees it in you. You are the thing attached to the shape in the mouth of the person who then wills it into the space surrounding. In this way you and I are incubated, hosted by bodies of conversation, invoked in passing, in vain, under the breath, conjured in the lonely wind tunnel of whisper synapse between mouth and ear. The sound of a name waits for agency, the sound of another to which it might lash itself, mouth to ear to mind to gut. Wait for the cliff that is the lips of a person. Let the sound of your name hang from the cliff, and try not to run, and try to keep up. Let the sound of your name be the thing that is you. Let the thing that is you belong to the name that is he.


From Now On You Will Feel ‘Til You Break

You’ll understand the relief incubated in that word “finally” when they sort out their scents, when their voices catch up with your curves. Bundles of mixed-upness, sensations crossing over so you feel his voice vibrate in the cavity you frame, the hole you are. See the anger buzz slightly outside him, smell it tangle with the spice embedded in his nerves. His nerves become your nerves when you reach for his ribs and wrap yourself into his smoky, bittersweet atmosphere. You realize that life, brute that it is, begs you to find someone and make him mean everything. You fool; they will never catch up.


I am gone enough that you don’t need
to give me reasons for anything.
Gone into incomprehensible ardor.


Since she could not control herself, she looked always for someone to do it for her, despite the fact that she knew she would eventually come to resent the hero who finally managed it, and ruin him for life. She had once before been ruined for life, and knew how much it made the soul want to rust through until it flaked from the body and float away on the slightest breeze. She did not want this, didn’t want to need someone and simultaneously resent him for it. She knew it was lunacy, unfair and destructive. No one would ever want to subject himself to this, she knew, so she memorized her shoelaces and developed the habit of looking out the window. Windows were easy things to look through. She knew they knew by the non-conversation exactly what she meant.

She meant that she didn’t want to mean anything. Not to them. Despite needing to mean something, everything, anything to them.

It was all quite bewildering.


Chords and chords crash through the cage holding me whole.
I can feel you tense, wrapped round the tenuous sinew
suspended within. Aimless tectonic shifts shudder through the bridge,
and still you sway me. Another, I shout. Once more.
I won’t quite beg you not to go; your going isn’t going anywhere,
and your grip gives me in.
Chords and chords cave we in.


No one ever looks at an adorable little kid and says, She’s going to be a heartbreakee.


From now on, things will be okay, 
promises every fairy tale ever.
Fairies suck at telling stories.
There is always another fight.