i come home to myself listening to kim petras; or, forebears: a rubbing

In fifth grade, I learned that the suffix -logy means “science”

But “sluggish” is the definition of logy, an adjective in its own right

“You and your father knew each other in a past life,” my acupuncturist chattered,

Interring the last needle in my auricle

Outside, power-walkers pass by, bright purple

Vestiges of the eighties

“You were scientists—colleagues. But you were the one to make a discovery that shook up your

field.”

She laid grids of crystals upon my forehead, across my clavicle, down my belly, and atop each of my

knees

“Your father wanted credit for your breakthrough, so he shot and killed you.”

The mandala in my mind’s eye

Twists and turns kaleidoscopically

Its colors growing richer

Its patterns gaining complexity

With every passing second

・・・

With reason to be at the airport, rather,

I once met upon a beleaguered gentleman

Uncovering guileless droppings

Hacking down virgin pines

And lurking behind desultory conversation

Along Witch’s Way

All the better to romance alternative facts

A scatterbrain

Everybody’s drunken uncle

Who ambles through reams of agony

The price to pay for sprinting from discomfort

In no time he spotted

The shanty ‘pon my shoulders

The hovel ‘round my head

So quickly that apologies for being me—

I’m so used to bungling coincidences—

Bubbled up from below the level of my verbosity

He is one whose dutiful fingers

Make way for the cruelest of comeuppances

By which I mean

My timidity

You diss strangers as ‘douchebags’

And drink and drive, kids in the car

It’s arbitrary, you say

There’s a reason for everything, you say

Indignation is your typical resort

But at times you reach out warmly

Trying to kiss me like

I’m the girlfriend you quit smoking for

Between waterfowl and the falls

Your heaven points and the hell you put us through

I’ve lost my up from my down

(I dreamed

My compass broke)

It’s a delicate blue hour

Anointed systematically by

Toilet paper restocking

And my chugging of La Croix

To the tune of antitrust

You joyfully consume your nasty foods

As I implant my earplugs

Like a fuck-you-very-much

To the gifts of the multiverse

But ‘God don’t make junk,’ right?

Ten years on, I’m not one

To quit before the marvelous

So I never mind

Place the plugs back in their porcelain chest

And beckon us to merrymaking

Taking the “pal” out of “parlor game”

You and I pass the evening with

Round upon round of gin rummy

Ushering forth a late-night fricassee

Of Jezebel juice:

Nether regions

Hooks

And frames

Underneath the table I scratch integers

With my fingernail into wood grain

In wonder

A cryptanalyst’s wet dream—

Your outfit says otherwise—

Notebooks unyielding

This is how I write my love letter

One with charms surpassing pretension . . .

Me and whose army?

I might nix the writerly ways

Go back to grad school

Study psychology

And be taught from books even more about how:

· My perceptions of male expectation shape my speech

· Codependency reconstructs the comfort in being sad

· Mood disorders are yet one more instigator of addiction

· Really, I just miss my mom

Complex trauma, et cetera, et cetera

Through which ungodly hours pass

At the speed of

Entropy

Pancakes

And panoplies of stretch marks

Manifesting the grief I wish you’d felt

The sickness sets in

Every Jordan almond sunrise

Fix me martyr tea

An email forward

And a blank check

To make it up to me

Your victorious strikes

And sentimental congruence

Never fail to

Eat me whim by whim

From my easy-bake oven out

I lay down my head to cry

But fury swells my veins instead

Rage at you and all of everyone

All of everything but

Her and me

Holding together amid the oil stripes . . .

(I dreamed

The tumor multiplied

And grew on my outside)

A ceiling fan stirs,

Striking the order of a moment ago

Umpteen times have I savored this place—

With pregnant-lady tastebuds—

Where the grass is always brown enough

For turtle soup

Or rabbit stew

Visitors here may witness

Candelabras like cobras

Plus spinning plates

Crema evanescing everywhere

And crony cartels chewing—

I mean camels

Those rude animals

That masticate

Sputum all of a sudden . . .

Glass beads surmising a goodly carafe

Head unbidding a wiseacre

And interior architecture worth all of a dime

Only to spell out

A veritable skunk parade

Returning to old haunts one by one

I am the ghost

Who can’t quite join her

Pounding the schoolyard ground

Wishing grassblades could cut me

Craving sense to the

Emptiness here

While she floats through the ether

Guns sound good

But perhaps I’ve had enough sharp permanence

For one year

How about this

I’ll wrap my brothers in blankets

And whisk us three away

From the crude knife you wield

To carve out our memories

To cut us down

(I dreamed that I tried this

But you held us hostage)

On an ancillary note

Diversions serve their purpose

While loved ones arise from the woodwork

Or, perhaps, ‘ones who love me’

A critical distinction

Unfortunate but concise, at least

Nevertheless, I’m run riot

I wiggle down the banister

Across the soundstage

And through the cavalcade:

· Pulling geographics

· Conning bullfrogs and seahorses alike into sex

· Raking cigarettes and hot coals over me and you and everyone we know

· Losing forever the ashes I wept over

Until

The veneer warps

The seams buckle

And I referee-call foul

Enter the stasis
Years pass by

Of thinking I’m an artist

As paint keeps drying on the brushes

Sketchbooks are slabs of post-it notes
Jottings about projects

That if brought to life will

Turn a sequential hard left

I compose spectres

Fluttering away like a failed shutterbug

Compromise is the passion killer

Bringing compassion into bloom

At ego number two’s expense

Flaccid

Or inverted

In clitoroplastic congeal

(In another life

I held the secret

You shot me for)

In a vision for you

I trudge the road

Sidestepping all cracks, but narrowly

It’s now I spy some middle-aged guy

Loving up

Everyone’s kids but his own

Spottable from afar

It’s always the entitlement

That gives complicity away

“Hey lecher”

I want to yell

“Hey limerent

Go find a different dumping ground

For your red sports car desires and

Your rimless glasses

Turn your stubble toward me one more time

And I’ll steal your leafblower

Aim it at your combover

Hammer it home: Phony! Fraud!”

. . . Fuckhead

I wish you’d feed me

The forgiveness

On a double-edged sword tip, so be it

That I won’t summon for you

So that I could write a different kind of poem

Down to earth and direct
I’d entitle it

“I Could Spend the Rest of My Life Apologizing to You, But I Won’t”

Or maybe, for some laughs,

Just “Daddy Issues”

Yes!

. . . But wait

Not enough self-consciously ironic original wit

Nature teams with nurture

For a third-guessing game

As the textures of

My insecurity

Mimic those which appoint your fingertips

Because I learned from you that

It’s all about the presentation

Day is done

Gone the sun

Dust embodies its role to be

Always already settling

I put it into historical perspective:

Centuries worth of

Regrettable cloudbursts

Also known as fathers’ sins

Have visited upon the children

A conjoining truism:

A republic hacked

At its less-than-fecund point

With diplomatic leanings undone

Leaving itty bitty buttercups—

Nothing to sniff at—

And five-millimeter lines

To make duplicitous trips

So gentlemanlyish

Or not

To do its once-dirty work

(I dream

Countlessly

Dreams in which

She doesn’t even face me

Her unattainability

As perfect as

Death’s reliability)

I’m taking out the trash

As well as:

· Doing the dishes

· Folding up the grocery bags

· Scooping out the litter box

· Sanitizing the counters, cabinet handles, refrigerator handles

· Scrubbing the bathroom floor, the toilet, the tub, the sink, the tile grout

· Laundering the dish towels, hand towels, bath towels, sheets, pillowcases

. . . Distracting myself from shame

From the ‘spirituality of imperfection’

I can’t stop cleaning wounds

Long enough to let them heal

And if I let you meet me halfway

I’ll sadly grant you access

To my hopes and dreams

My flickers and flops

Fickle and blistering

My grand foyer . . .

Whoops, I forgot to mention

· Saving every relevant receipt for each of us

And

· Calculating each of our expenses every motherfucking month

Oh, and

· Sobbing in the shower

I dunno though, maybe that last one wasn’t as important . . .?

Relax

The moon’s out, the tide is in

So trace for me a rapid fade

First, make my bed

Second, soak my air plant

Third, count my blessings on the page

Fourth, watch the ink dry

Fifth, inhale the lilies that could

Kill my cat

Easter stargazer, our favorites

Go on

Steel myself against the seduction

The most recent flood of reasons

For your absent existence

And why I never trust

A traditionalist