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tarot readings & electronic beaches

tarot readings & electronic beaches

substances over substantiality has been for a time

the modus operandi; i draw and select of pentacles—queen,

i enter the sand battling barefooted, searching for my dark woman

 

there wigged women shuffle black sand toes

knees knifing, elbows bowed against

tautly turning bellies harnessing hope

 

mostly ignoring rhythmic knowledge, i am found

searching for men with dramatized eyes,

a black night fronds and silver stars aesthetic

 

i am found beneath a wig, a pretension, and a problem—

the people climb imaginary walls, wriggling for some eyes only, but

compliments from jeweled crown women lull ego to perception

 

the moths' wings drowned in urine and sweat

bland colored creatures struggle on blue plastic embossment

lest we slip and land on our backs pathetically writhing in tune

 

and too sand slips from the wide eyed feign’s lamenting hand

i spit small balls of mugwart leaf, blood purging out in retribution

still blinded by sandstorm beards & salt hips covered in patterns saccharine

 

kisses under cold wet sheets, colder cans, and steaming sweatback creatures

clamor from tent to stage, feral and feeling more and less than they'd bargained for

none of this is real anyway, the placement of beats absorbs our sins

 

back for more brew, last day, red cup offered to white lost lips

the five point celestial embodiment of purge, except and let go

the garment touting woman isn’t dark enough, yet one must serve as guide

 

CAUTION:

do not wake while sleeping

do not knock when bach’s mass in b minor is on[1]

 

do not wash dishes while shower is running[2]

do not ask questions audibly while there is reading to be done[3]

 

do not say ‘right,’ ‘calm down,’ ‘relax, or ‘chill’

at your own risk: ‘hurry up,’ ‘come on,’ or ‘you’ll be late’

 

ask neither ‘are you ready?’ nor ‘how much longer do you think...?’[4]

do not allow the yolk to cook[5]

 

do not approach in media res[6]

i repeat, do not approach in media res

 

do not empty coffee carafe into her mug[7]

do not save it for yourself[8]

 

do not leave her towels heaped, a sponge submerged, or damp refuse

do not watch her take any care while imparting knowledge to the task

 

do not mismatch the power cords from adapters and their sockets

do not allow duvet cover to crumple, revealing the loathed beige sofa beneath

 

do not double lock her door

do not inquire as to her innumerable alarms

 

do not bring balcony slippers into the house

smoke outside, but do not leave the screen ajar

 

no crumbs on the floor

no unsolicited contact during sleep

no long kisses without tongue

don’t dare tilt her macbook screen

 

now go, enjoy[9]

and as always, operate with care

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] if you don’t know what to listen for, just never knock at all

[2] you think you’re helping to tidy up, yet you’ll end up dying young

[3] a DM will not distract her all that much; expect a prompt response

[4] if any of the aforementioned pragmatics came as a shock, please place down this poem; out the way you came

[5] if it doesn’t run, you should

[6] from liquid eyeliner application to cutting produce, this is ill advised within pre-lunch domestic sphere

[7] detestable dregs!

[8] takes one to want some

[9] bring wine

wet behind the ears

living very far away and having resigned herself to certain attributes

of my personality—which are mostly blamed on the poor

conditions of the countries I choose to live in

and/or my father’s side of the family’s genetic

predispositions, she finally instructs over the not so

small phone placed under the only plant

i can really keep alive—bamboo,

if you were wondering: “get it while you can…

your figure,

your brains,

your secretions,

—they all leave you.”

my mother advises, and the support becomes bakhtinian

grotesque in that instant.

i would like to bring this up to the poet women

whom i plan, cackle, dream, and dine with.

instead we like

to talk about how long we can last

until wet

or dry shampoo is in order.

 

whom are we challenging?

what would Ovid have to say today?

still each enclave, cavern, cove

recalls the melted bones of Echo.

women now would hardly be

mythologically relevant once resolved

to sobbing into rotting.

 

still nature’s incessant longing:

lingering speech acts, howls, screams,

and moans recall a Nympha forever

dejected on all remaining forest floors.

 

as we with screen glance at self

in either black reflect reality, or checking

mechanistically the virtual imprint

of words we chose more carefully—

knowing the staying power of impact.

 

how would Ovid poetically differ

these reverberations, too, out of physical reach

from those he morally cautioned of a metamorphosis?

 

how is Narcissus any worse than us?

if not in mirror blankness, then in social

media portrayal, avatar, or influencing verbal

thrusts toward eternal self-conscious inadequacy

devolved to ego stroking lust or hashtag competency?

 

just because our reflections fit in palm,

on desktop, and in lap, does not make our

stance and angles chose any better than the rot

and flowers they’ve been warning us about

for centuries.

catch up

i find swing sets

it’s a thing i've always loved because it’s easy to control

but it’s fake freedom with chains and steel at the root, and the grip must be tight,

and your heels must eventually dig a bit, less graceful than perhaps you envision,

and so I make a scene each time

 

and seats outside

with women i have loved and love me back

become swing sets sought after behind more steel in less locations over longer stretches of time

 

the distance and time are measurements i prefer not;

those have been cliche since before we had grey hairs,

since before we had comments on the grey hairs,

since before we even knew what they would really fucking feel like in our hands.

 

the heights we look up to together became larger than our own;

we know we cannot feed each other’s wishes,

so we can crane our necks to see specks of people,

and we can tell each other all the disgusting layers of insecurity we accept;

we wash it down on collapsible tables because despite grey hairs, we still don’t call ahead for reservations

 

we speak of polyamory and jealousy and unwanted attention from wanted wells,

we speak of visas and how much power we have to get them,

we speak of our empty wombs and how much power we will need to maintain,

to keep them so—

 

some call us brave,

because we aren’t little specks with velocity and neck breaks,

we are here

and we are close

but we don’t hug anywhere near enough

and the fancy bathtub in the morning was impossible to use.

 

I want my swing set back

and it makes me break my spine to let out loud cries

on a tarmac

as warm water still spills on never been used white lies.