He. I.

This post represents the first true stream-of-consciousness style poem I’ve published here (and, for better or worse, largely unedited). I was inspired to play around with the form by a reading of The Diary of Frida Kahlo, to which I dedicated the greater part of this afternoon. I am not certain how I feel about the outcome, but in the spirit of experimentation (and spontaneity), I thought I’d publish it anyway. The first stanza–the intellectual game–comes from a dream I had last night.

He. I. 
Man with a bag and a fine-tooth comb
Mirror, mirror, one, two, three 
One is the primary orientation to the problem 
Two—I don’t remember—and three is five—underlined—ways to fight?
I’m not right
A black hook nail
Written on a sketchbook
Dreamer girl
Time stops. I stop. Closing on a limb. Circle and pull.
Not yet. 
Not yet.
Crimson tiger, liquid, rice
Everything like a Monday night

Maybe I am not as close as I seem
Yellow-haired gypsy girl
Stable and a throne
Big stripe fade to small, dark to light
Half foot
Half turn
Half-naked burn
You spark when you’re the same

You have to fight for yourself like that
Raindrops. Trickling bows. Stab you like arrows.
I quake inside
I am naked but not beautiful
I am a star but I burn like a crooked tree
My house is empty and my soul vacates the leaves

8 thoughts on “He. I.

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