MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 19)

Let's workshop this stanza sequence, which includes dreaming octopuses, white beaches, nostril whiskers, geese beheadings, guitars, ouija boards, and more!

the snap, the pluck, of a fishing net lifted empty from the ocean

where the flame goes when extinguished is where you go

breastfeeding her ailing father

clear tracks from tears down dirty cheeks

routine abortions packaged as blood baths

grieving truant grieving

octopus colors reflecting its dreams of hunting, of evading

the courage of the doctor who drove 
a catheter from his arm to his heart
to show it could be done on humans

birth control, over time, could clear
the evolutionary slate enough to open us
to sexual relations with our siblings

to do your own research on everything
is a waste of time as well as a slap in the face
to the experts who sacrificed their lives 

if beggar is your accustomed role,
then getting what you beg for
might result in your undoing

a land where truth and goodness and expertise is a function of entertainment value

he comes sooner than he wanted 
but not so soon
that the other is pissed

the gratification of watching a clothes dryer 
spin itself to pieces, not stopping until
just a motor—how pathetic, we think

beaches so white they hurt the eyes

entertaining ourselves to death

young in every photo because she dies young

everlasting wipe—the culprit: a mere deer pebble

a land where we think, if only by analogy, water is there for there to be fish

kept alive in flashbacks

grow better: disrespect ideas, not people

the reasoning behind what you believe matters whether or not
you are right, since that reasoning suggests what you are going to say
about the next matter and so whether you should be trusted

saying that determinism cannot be true since we make choices 
(which we clearly do) is as uninformed as when Samuel Johnson says
he has refuted Berkeleyan idealism merely by kicking a rock

her home is such that the child stands,
stuck, in a next-door patch of woods
after a slow meandering from the bus stop 

shooting nostril whisker—
a wild onion weed 
with bulblet root to incisor

cheap whiskey shots down the throat 
of the tranquilized pit-bull 
that terrorized the small town

algorithm-fed what is best for keeping 
human attention—the best being
wild theories, outrage, division

fleeing her—his?—advances after spotting male genitalia

the crush’s name repeated over notebooks and record covers

all passwords still her name years after the divorce  

things seem simple when we do not attend to them

thorough consideration of junk mail near death

a land where disagreement is considered indecent

literal chill pills for elementary-school behavior problems 

cutting off the goose’s neck with a dull Swiss Army 

leaving the rest of us behind on a world they ruined, 
now close to uninhabitable even for roaches like us, 
the superrich blast off in shoals over just a few years

interest and ability and temperament (not just institutional discrimination)—
let those be considered at least possible variables in why so few of group A 
(Chinese or women) are in career x (boxing or Alaskan king crab fishing)

nonsense on the notepad 
as just a therapist’s way 
to run down the clock

the thought they must have real jobs 
checks your feeling of superiority 
before the works of so many lesser artists

a slave surplus allows for brutalities, 
bodies chained to food-shit-work spots, 
without worry about diminished output

those who play, relax, clean up
in good conscience only once
they put in hours toward their art

just because you will—must—become something
does not render any less real the sacrifice 
of all that you could be to what you will be  

liking a gift only because of the love the giver put into picking it out

cancelling others who conjure up 
our problems instead of working
to fix our problems

seen from the side, an arc 
of pick scratches stands out 
on the guitar’s patina

some complain about there being
no away to get to anymore while
others make an away out of what they have 

solemn apology for even a grave wrong
makes you look good: it gives you gravitas, 
genuineness as a human in the fight

striving for the right blend of whatever—
words, paint, notes—so as to capture
what you have sensed or felt or thought

stuttering because you are so shy or so shy because you stutter? 

Ouija boards to draw poetry from a different portion of yourself

infants are always right, not college students

he stutters because he feels entitled to demand 
the words to come out at once, and is frustrated
when they fail to meet his impossible demand

devotion to God or to country 
are the typical ways by which 
we dig ourselves out from disgrace

men and women divided
into different spheres 
of labor and concern

farting away pent up bloat
and taking off the itchy wig
as soon as you step inside 

This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2016 portion of that five-part work.

Photo of a fisherman: jenikirbyhistory.getarchive.net/media/fisherman-at-home-in-bayou-gauche-nara-544202-b10892