detatched poetics

the way that restless thoughts jump must carve some line of stones.
just writing tonight to find where wanderings coincide.

her social security card still bears a 9-year-old girl’s signature. the only part of her that still wears that kind of stamp. everything changes. markings fade, returning as raised scars she can’t see but can feel beneath the tips of her fingers. she starts mentally packing every few years, like clockwork. 

a 6-year old scar…naropa repulsed her. the silk color font, pampered phrases, gag reflex reaction to philanthropy for multiplied self-indulgence…or just a fucked up conglomorate of reactions to the truth. meaning memories. one of these. but today gives a certain sense to this language. weeding exagerations, but still. listening. perhaps with a keener emotion then when she was there, obstructed by defenses.

it feels clean to read old friends. social security cards, manuscripts. cleaner looking back instead of digging the sense out of a messy present. maybe it was the same then. notes in the margin of jack collom’s “sound is my number.” birding in the flatirons. his favorite pastime. hers just spending time with people who knew their own footing. she seemed a shadow trying to escape, pinned losely by the lack of clutter when he spoke.

a san josé interlude. alarms sound on the edge of the city like a muffled heart through an ultrasound.

M82M82 | Smithsonian

sound through her skin. optical lights from stars (yellow-green), she learns, are mundane at first. a second glance (orange) sounds something different. they are layered. complicated even. beautiful. matter blasts out of (her). an image (red) reveals more. cool being ejected. camera (blue) snaps heat from the violent outflow. vigorous star forming in her central regions. the burst is thought to have been initiated by a close encounter.

actions (blue) haven’t changed. she is obsessed with protecting her time, with the shape of her skin, how a particular mistake takes precidence when set beside another. obsessed with arranging her surroundings, capturing air on her skin, staring at light until it vanishes. someone once called naropa a “personal growth boot camp.” she bore it.

her breath swells (red) in presentable contradictions. light captures order (yellow-green) and packs it into oposites. she bears it. the mental packing (orange). and returns.

Latin co- + incidere “to fall on”
1 : occupy the same place in space or time
2 : correspond in nature, character, or function


2 responses to “detatched poetics

  • Lee

    The first part about the social security card reminds me of 1) Peter Orlovsky’s poem, Signature Changed, and 2) the signature on my social security card that eerily resembles my youth.
    Only clean your scars if you intend to forget.

  • Steph

    ha. thanks lee–will look for the orlovsky poem.

    i never intend to forget…my obsession with nostalgia won’t allow it. it still happens. then drops a shadow which is something like a wish for nostalgia. so basically…yeah. 😉

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