MADE FOR YOU AND ME 2: hive Being (Stanzas 2017—part 9)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about masturbation, lack of intimacy, porn actors, bucks clouded in fantasy, anorexia anxiety, opportunistic leopards, blaspheming reality by believing in miracles
handsy poltergeists run in the family light years more advanced but always crashing in Podunk she mistook wanting to keep its father with wanting to keep the child squirrels fall off branches fictions already factor into, color, our assessment of what is real and what is fictional the abortion loophole of threatening to kill yourself if you are not allowed it infuriated with the person for dying relief enough to numb existential dread making up wonders blasphemes real wonders watching your ninth-grade crush lean against a car— a thug in a durag pushing thirty, squeezing her ass— as you step on the yellow bus, plans dashed to walk her home odd enough, the porn actor turns to PornHub on his phone during a take five to restore the rigidity required to complete the scene a young buck trapped by his own antlers to rot between two trees— the drunken rage of the rut having had him believing in his magic as he tried to dash through a gap laughably narrow to sober eyes the pity lies not in seeing sculpted faces and highways on Mars, but in the conviction—akin to that of the cloud really being a giant hotdog—that they really are sculpted faces and highways! old ladies rightfully imagining their mid-orgasm faces to be mistakable for medical emergency high-altitude balloons—platforms for weather measurement along with espionage cameras and explosion sensors—can seem saucer-like when seen from the ground in their glow of reflected light priest blessings as cold and rote as depositing change in the bus fare box googling “envelope glue calories" in setback anxiety anticipatory nostalgia the kid in the hippie commune begging for a GI-Joe hopes and fears overriding the minimal skepticism avoiding the doctor in fear of the number on the scale leopard guarding the baby deer, but only until its blooms into full meatiness masturbating to his secret love letters songs too evocative of your past to hear how they “really” sound organizing your life around what readers would find entertaining, like dating after your divorce instead of moping her suicide scrawl, returned by the police with no bedside manner, passed down with each death: from her husband to her daughter, then to her unknown grandson and a host of strangers down the line because some defensiveness was warranted (at least in certain aspects of the particulars), she remained blind to the underlying criticism thousands of bathers on the beach— are they really not entangled in the same story?
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 2017 portion of that five-part work.
Fuckin’ durag rockin’ thirty year olds. Jessie…