cassidy martin
[raise arms spread fingers think yes i am yes free i am alive]
in one of those dreamy states of emotion
when the eyes are focused on a few flickering details
and the rest is all a blur the color of my mind
he told me i wake up pissed off and i go to bed pissed off
and you are the only good thing in my life and it reminded me
of a conversation long ago i had nearly forgotten
and i thought to myself
why i am i drawn to these men who believe their life
their rich white intelligent athletic male american privileged fucking life
is nothing but a ?
and WHY must i be their blessing some smile to fixate upon
someone to absorb their thousand shades of black
such menacing humor such lack of selflessness WHY
do i give my heart to someone who ?
a champion defeated he said there are so many things
i wish i could do over
a creator disillusioned i replied i was born in a century
where nobody reads poetry
my face buried in his shoulder i felt tears form
and in black sweaters in a black bed in a black room
we hid ourselves from each other in the dark
our conversations
are long and scattered
with traces of our old selves
and just like old times
we smoke bowls in your Honda
feet on the dashboard
turned toward each other
in the darkness where
we are both outside
and in a private room
where the familiar trees
of our neighborhood exist
but the wind slapping
at the branches does not
and where the people we pass
seem more like a movie
through this glass
and through each other
my eyes seek deeper
into stories and ideas
and the meanings we construct
somewhere between reality
and unreality suspended
between shadows of death
and the false illumination
of man-made light
-drugs- those things
those states of mind
and you and i - our we
is a state of mind
i begin to remember
how passionate you are
in all directions
i remember how your words
burn everything they touch
and the smoke of me
ascends to a song i know well
as you stoke the ashes
of my old soul
all of the embers crackle
leaping lightly
at a feeling so familiar
it was a giant -
bony, spindly, grown too fast
thin muscles dressed in shab
glorified still it was breathing
limbs extended: one upward
toward a heaven unexplored
and the other, with fingers
skeletal, straightening
toward the ground
an open palm
i claimed as home
i slept within its grooves
sunk deep into nirvana
ribcage rattled with night
but with each moment i felt
my behemoth fading away
flesh thinning into zero
it came slowly
but by dawn i was surrounded
with prickling light
and a little morning dew
crept into my eyes
for even giants
find their way home
and lapse into star dust
as is noon why intensity
was do you beat of post
you are breathe crisp
so hard pillow talk
( quiet my
poem is ( i imagine ( fingers i
quietly you are feel at
spreads were my mind
into you ) a tall man sleep
long nosed they say )
these leaves pointed
this morning down ) it will
was come soon
you somewhere winter you it is
were slink was
are away between you
comatose and
( even now with is i
i pray are were
it is we ( little we
a quiet lived are
yearning in moments
as is ) ( bury me of sentiment
in your asleep we
what is summer are
is? robes in another )
to exist wind
a fraction folding not yet
of morning creases i still
turning of fabric ) hear day
( quietly ) your breath
into such meek whispers
noon intensity as is
i am shrouded
in unwritten pages,
scented of sage and tea leaves.
( i am on fire
my ink-scrawled
outer parchment
curling into dust )
another year shed:
i watch the memories burn,
bursting in gold and red
like offerings from my youth.
( take me
sweep the ashes
of old words
write new stories
on nascent flesh )
how many skins left to shed;
how many worth saving?
life is too insignificant
to resent the past.
( relinquish nostalgia
breathe in
my soul
is sage and tea leaves
i am only a ripple
in an unfurling sea )
yes i am flawed
i have stolen and deceived
ostracized and terrorized
forgotten the important things
and made messes out of details
i have told lies i never plan to untell
i have wished for pain
for scars of glamour and self-pity
i find something thrilling
about self-destruction
and sometimes i will hold a cigarette
long after i finish it, i will roll the cancer
back and forth between my knuckles
thinking about romantic imperfections
about pushing myself
to a point of vomit and unbearable pain
to addiction and death thinking,
i-am-my-only-enemy thinking, how delightful
to stare into the night glittering with distant orbs
to feel nothing-is-left because i and only i
drained myself of essence
i and only i
saw the starlight in my own eyes
lapse into the past
leaving me fearless and free
free of a self that amasses sin and guilt
that separates life from death
a new self is all i have to believe in-
i have broken myself
into a thousand mosaic splinters
what is behind, is behind
and i miss it like hell already
but i hope to forge on into the unknown
and for the first time i am starting to feel like
it will be beautiful
it will be full of wonders
and full of despairs
it will be alive
i’m choosing to forget
about perfect grammar and metaphors
that weave words into a fantasy
choosing to relearn
the facts of life from a new perspective
choosing to be defined
only by a vague and uncertain faith
in my own ability to achieve
and to surpass all expectations
yes i am flawed
but my power is in my imperfections
i have begun to escape definition
i have climbed to a place where nothing matters
i am free to tell lies i never plan to untell
free to live the life i have always craved
with my assets and my imperfections
i am free to thrive on thin air and homemade faith
.
.
.
.
voice recording here
we fell apart
colors and sounds
gathered like
rot flowers
two forms shapeless
emaciated spectres
of memories
no longer mine
i. mind
i still remember the lighting
of prominent memories
like the first time he took me into him
the world bright and creamy,
senses stinging with delight
or the living room glow
when my father threw a shoe,
my mother’s scream etched
forever golden in my mind
ii. body
i can’t bring myself to tattoo,
the skin speaks so loudly-
i run my fingers over the pores,
each one sighing at the touch
and i remember
what it means to be a body:
this skin will someday die
these eyes will rot into the earth
iii. distance
i watched
the crescent moon rise yellow
and an old friend disappearing
into the darkness of 12:57AM,
painfully aware
of my disconnection.
so far from everything
i-am-skin-i-am-shadow
fingering the folds
of the fabric of humanity
and when they speak,
i can’t bring myself to care
i - am - ghosted
i am like the crescent moon,
yellow in its search for the rest of self-
a wraith helplessly wrapped
in the light of the world around me
I was born with the hands of an old woman-
cold, wrinkled, and bony
but also wise, and full of tenderness.
My soul is a moth, grasping toward light
yet fearful for the death that claims
the instant we will meet.
I smell of rotting sunflowers,
sweet, musky, drying into
limp orange clusters.
I am the dust that slides into a beam of light,
that wavers fragile in the air
and retreats into shadow.
I am Fleeting,
made of rich red clay
and earth like moist breath—
see me in the sun, in the birds
who dip like smears across the sky
then reemerge, blind and beautiful,
holding happiness between the arches
of their wings, more delicate
than the last bleeding notes of daylight.
I am Fleeting,
and it feels human.
