How I Turned Into Schrodinger's Cat

I cough and spit into a paper napkin – the last one. I
imagine my insides corrugated corrupted flaking off and
floating out. The thought is not displeasing. I
imagine turning off all the lights, black-out
curtaining the windows, barricading all the doors. I
imagine floating from one dark room to the
next through halls of fluffing, rust-ruffled
shadows of smashed mirrors and blank-faced
clocks. Eventually the food would all run out.
I wonder who would eat whom first – me or the
cats. I imagine all this taking place in a day,
in the few and fleeting hours of an afternoon,
so that by nightfall I could drift out,
reborn. This is why I do not live alone. This is
why I need counseling. But the only therapist
who called me back does not want to see me,
does not want her Catholic sanctuary
shadowpoxed by me. She said I sounded too
hesitant. If I was not too hesitant I would
not need therapy. If I was not so
hesitant about my life, about being happy,
about unfurling my pigeontoe clutch on
all my dark and glittering trashy secrets. I
imagine drawing fear, small and winking
bright. I imagine a warm bed free
of nightmares. I imagine images in grainy
flashcards. I imagine needing someone to
imagine me.

Still Life with Blood and Clay

01.19.01
11.23.03

[ ]

I feel cold, sluggish and anti-social and decide to pretend I’m stoned. Hate group work. Blink. Blink. Swallow. Sniff. Eye-grains. Chipped, paint-crusted nail polish. I don’t think I like listening to smart kids talk. Breast-heavy, sweater lint. I forgot to take my meds this morning. Wish class would dissolve, people breaking up into fluttering bits of colored paper. Some days I feel like turning into a turtle, hoisting myself onto a flat, warm rock and waiting drowsily for schizophrenia to strike. In my dream was a
bathtub, filled with blood again. Blood and clay. Lee disappeared and all I could find was people telling me what a terrible person I am. I think about the warm, resiny smoke of a mouthful of hash. About rolling naked across the class floor, faking seizures. About just getting my stuff and walking out. About selling my car and spending all the money on gumballs. I’ll fill a huge aquarium with gumballs. I’ll paint the white walls in wet Jell-O and watch it dry. I’ll poke out my eyes, change my name to Tierisius.

None of This Is Ever Going to Happen

My sparkly fuchsia notebook is lost. I imagine
running off with Shane to live in a cave somewhere
long ago and far away. Somewhere all we’d have to
do would be find food and climb trees and play
in creeks and get wet and dirty and have fun and
sleep. Like memories distilled from old movies. But
thee are always ticks and bats (rabid) and
malnutrition. Still, there is something very satisfying
the idea of just growing things or fishing or hunting
for food, rather than standing all day in an
airless office and not doing anything to get it. I
would love to go hunting sometime. Wouldn’t
mind going fishing again either, actually. Been a while.
Not in that nasty cement lake the parents live in
though. That’s why I want to move to Virginia
someday; I love the idea of me living in a
little tiny house with a huge garden – vegetable
and herb and hemp. Trees growing crab-apples
and peaches and hazelnuts and walnuts. A few
sheep (for the wool) and a cow or two. No
chickens – they’re dirty and I’m sure I can always
trade something for a few eggs. I could
hunt deer, I think. Not that I’ve ever tasted
venison or held a rifle. I could bake bread
(but where would the flour come from?) I could
make fruit jams, but whence the jars to keep
them? Well, if I grew enough sinsemilla I
could surely trade for what I wanted.
None of this is ever going to happen.


02.08.01
12.22.03

Chewing Magic Words

I have spent the last week studiously avoiding
fantasizing about you
and the chewing moving muscles beneathe your skin
and your long palms cupping my shoulders,
your teeth in the nape of my neck.
I sleep with the phone at fumbling length;
I am waiting for you to call with magic words.