June 21, 2016 § 1 Comment

Yesterday I came out to a stranger for no reason and he said That’s crazy and tried to get my phone number.

Yesterday a group of neighborhood girls found the kittens and they gathered around me like I was a storyteller or the camp counselor at kitten camp while I told them all about them.

Don’t touch them. Protective. Don’t touch me. Conductive. I always look for the reasons why things are my fault. THIS WON’T DO.

I do not like to write and am not a writer because I become more passive, looking for how to say, how to say, I am saying WRONG.

Angry, miserable. That’s crazy, you need a man. I’d give my left fucking nut not to care what this shitdick said, I wish the kids could play with the kittens, I wish I knew how to make them not hurt each other. You here and you there, safe, just wait.

Fart, fart; these words are farts. Tiny reliefs, sometimes massive ones, but woefully brief. Yet I must say more words because they are the only way, und das Fenster war geschlossen. Warum?

Not writing is a better expression. Talking. Let’s talk. Ah, I’ve ruined it already and long ago.

I wrote this a different way, yet this is how I wish to speak today.

You want kids? No. You like girls? …..Yes. That’s crazy. You need a man.

You actually said that, dumbfuck. Fucking dumbfuck.

Nonetheless, my first thoughts were why did I say anything? I can say what I want. But I did not say anything out of myself, like for example GO FUCK YOURSELF. It’s rubbish to entertain what I know’s rubbish. I answered questions, because once in a while these things will happen. All caps talking, like Owen Meany. Do you know that book? Ah, well, evaporate, sir; just be gone for good.

Sometimes it is enough that the words upon the screen or page are just as they scrambled out of me but just thinking that reveals the emptiness of it, I must say more.

There is some interview with Eileen Myles or maybe it’s Dodie Bellamy and one of them or someone they know is talking about Jack Kerouac. We’re identifying with the men in the story, we’re identifying, and then they drive up to where the women are and everything grinds to a halt, NO. We are not them we are us. We’re subjects, we’re driving, there’s the trees. So what the fuck do you want now? Was I just waiting here for you to fuck me and I forgot for a minute that I wasn’t a real person or what?

I couldn’t stop thinking about it did not want to stop. I wrote a poem about it, a bad poem. About being catapulted out of myself. It became about more things, like being the intruder, the invader, a feeling yet more familiar. The places where I’ve walked trying not to be seen. Where I can, sure enough, be invaded. When that man and then the other man and then the other began to speak and to go beyond speaking and I stopped being able to think  unto myself, which was all circling and circling anyway. It broke that circle like a key. In the new Helen Oyeyemi there are lots of keys. Keys and puppets. There’s another circle beyond that one.

I remember being part of a group, almost, and accidentally doing strange things that made the people laugh and wonder, what’s wrong with you. You curious squat person. Only, not really. It was okay. Me feeling shakily content, me feeling this is me with people, this is how it can be.

What’s my poetry for? Sometimes it is stupid, gurgling desperate sounds. Sometimes it is a real expression; how often does that happen? I need to MAKE IT THE FUCK HAPPEN more. I must not wait for words or look for them in other people’s brains.

I will stop speaking to the shitdick and start speaking to K.

Dear K., a long time ago you had a friend named Jenny who died of the same thing I have, so you will never fully trust me. This cannot be changed. Now I’ve become nervous because speaking to you has long meant switching my brain gears to dreams and I realize I do this with everyone I have loved and love (all the same), because what if there can be no reality to it? And I see that it is cruel to think that anyone is waiting; whether they are or not, to wait, after a point, is a cruelty upon the self. What’s to arrive? Were you perhaps waiting for a reason to run? I cannot live on empty nothingness and cruel bullshit. I am angry and want to scream at you in those woods where we were and where she died. I wasn’t there then but I am now, not in dreams. This is all happening. Everything brutal and swift. It is not you and I, nor I plus anyone else, suspended in a dream. I must change things. I, you, must forget the dreams, forget being asleep, there can be no more of that, now I’ve written these words and I do not feel passive. It is not brutal to break a dream, it’s living, living. I have not been able to cry. There’s been a hard ball inside my body I can’t break because crying is breaking; I try to cry to break it but it won’t yield. I want to break it so you know who I am and can see me. We have to see each other.



§ One Response to 62116

  • birds fly says:

    Well, this is a lot here. And right below it in my reader was this quote from Jeffrey Meyers’ biography of Joseph Conrad:


    So I guess I will just respond to that small part of your post. I think some writers just need more time. Waiting for words is definitely frustrating, though- I’m with you on that. But it seems better to have a few really good poems that you feel contain genuine expression than to have a lot that you think you forced out. I struggle with the same issue and forcing it never seems to work for me. I do find that switching genres sometimes helps. I set poetry aside awhile back because everything I wrote rang false to me. Fiction had been working better, although now that is starting to slow down. Writing never feels easy to me, but maybe it shouldn’t ever feel that way.

    (Also…the shitdick sounds like a real…shitdick (can’t really top that word). It’s experiences like this that make the idea of talking to strangers seem highly overrated…)

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