alien hand syndrome

when I’m on the other side—

I’m a molten orb of desire,
kindled between your palms
released, summoned
to a damp forest floor.


act appalled

And so I steal my love back
All of it, at once
Actually Bukowski’s On Love
Because it is the antithesis of what I’m looking for
It’s shit, really
So, naturally, I gotta have it
And he knew very little of it – at least of the upkeep
But we know everything about it
Because we’ve lived it
Because we are it
Because there is little to know, but all to be

      Just be

But then — the apple bites back
(the heart is not inside)
And we both recoil at the sight of our once-favorite fruit

      Just being takes work

Pushing a rickety shopping cart through the intersection
Lighting a joint as you coast through the intersection
Crashing into the shopping cart pushed by the man rolling through the intersection
While lighting your joint
He’s got your face, my expression:

      Act Appalled

Be edgy with your mind,
He says
I am always on the edge!
Of mind and
Of everything else
I says,
And most all movements perpetrated by the mind
So that makes everything—
I need to be dulled

Sharpen your ax-eye-tooth
Go split some wood in the forest
Kill for survival
Something unpleasant and bloody
Then return to me
Do unto me like you have done to nature

Meanwhile, I will search for the
Rain that feels like sun
Rain that energizes and concentrates its iron in the ores of my body
To not feel nothing
To not feel everything
All at once


I fill myself up with you
and become less like me,

yet your smell doesn’t stick
you offer large Ts or flannels after
I decline, scooping my gloom garb from the floor
sliding into anonymity and out the cracked front door

I fill myself up with you
balsam and cedar tonic straight shot
my eyes write over you like a printing press
taking you in so I can pull myself out and through

no matter what or how much you douse on me,
I remain: porous.