Float On (Sensory Deprivation Blog)

Sean turned my name into knuckles

I hit him so hard that day in the field I became punch-through-fire-proof

 .

Vince curled my name into a slimy tongue

I could no longer tell whole truths with

 .

John made my name feel like quiet dirt

the way he buried me beneath the woods despite my persistence,

the way my mother asked where I’d been, my name falling like rocks,

I told the most elaborate lie I’ve still

never cleaned the ground off of

 .

Amber changed my name into steam from behind confusing doors

She said it so perfectly it made me sweat

 .

Erik made my name into a full bodied woman

His heat felt like a tangible honesty, like

a healthy feast of hand-prints that didn’t need soap

 .

Brittany dismantled it

Made it into a mess of

crashing teeth and begging,

the way she highway-pile-up’d such a pristine smile

 .

Davey clayed my name into blame,

pointed his mistaken penetration at the only two syllables

I own completely

like he wasn’t riddled with thorns

 .

Stacy took my wounded name in like a limping dog,

bathed its matted fur, removed its parasites, and casted its broken foot

 .

Roxanne itched behind its ears and threw it brand new tennis balls

She said my name so slowly I hung on waiting for its sound to finish sapping

from her mouth

 .

When things got bad with Claire my name gouged the air like a scratched original

Johnny Cash and June Carter record that I dropped on moving day

Their cover of “It Ain’t Me, Babe” skipped and tore through our home

nightmarish and insistent

We furiously denied the unintended grooves in the plastic, forgiving,

but not really forgiving, the accident

until it finally broke in half

like a furiously undeniable ruin

When I was 13 years old

I mathed when I expected your mom and dad would let me take you shopping alone

I figured by then I would be 29

because your parents, being who they are, probably wouldn’t let you out of their sight

until you had your ticket to freedom

you would have just received your driver’s license

your hair would be forever and dusty gold

your eyes would still be blue

despite half of your bloodline

and we would have things in common

like angst and music, maybe

and cuss words

I would try my best to relate to being a teenager as if forgetting I ever was one

 .

When I was 13 years old

I mathed when I would be able to take you to a bar

Of course, I had no idea what a bar looked like on the inside,

but I’d seen them in movies before

and that was just as good as real

 .

I would be 34

Your hair would be longer than my memory of the previous decade

We would talk about sex and drink until we forget our differences

 .

By then I would have stopped thinking about how much you don’t look like mine

or how much better you were to have been born a daughter who loved the color pink

and didn’t own a skateboard

But mostly how much I wish your dad would have been my dad

By then I would have stopped thinking about how much my mom and him still laughed

the way they always laughed

or about how his replacement was a man so mean I swore he was filled with fire

I would have stopped wondering what I did to become so unlovable

by the men who raised me

I would have stopped blaming my own comparison to you

 .

I would have stopped resenting the way your dad white washed you and your mother’s brown

like mud from the bottom of a new pair of sneakers

I would have stop kicking myself for not trying harder to make him less racist

or not trying harder to tell him

in front of you

that it’s not okay to say “that’s gay” to describe something stupid

like some kind of inside joke I didn’t find funny

no matter how sarcastically it was said

 .

I would have forgiven my love-handles for the way they danced

when he flicked them

I assume you hate your body the same way

seeing how when you are in public you point at all the fat people

and cackle like you are terrified

I would have stopped kicking myself for not explaining how cruel that is

or voicing my discomfort

when you say incredibly intelligent things

followed by ignorantly mean things

 .

By then I could tell you about my girlfriend and you would understand the language I use

without questioning who I am as a human being

I would have forgotten the time you ridiculed me for not graduating high school

even though you attended my graduation (you were just a kid)

and didn’t know what “why don’t you and Eric get REAL jobs” meant

like I didn’t break my back every day struggling to feel proud of myself for living

 .

I would stop blaming myself for not better showing you

there is a world that exists outside of your bubble exploding with

weird, astounding treasures

that want you to love them

 .

You would ask me for advice and I would tell you everything I’ve learned

because by then, of course,

I would have figured out how to be a big sister without resenting both of us

for being products of our upbringing

Ticket stubs to every concert and movie I’ve been to

 .

My old rugby ball

 .

My original and only existing birth certificate

 .

Picture of Greg in his “I Dig Molly” (Molybdenum) mining shirt

 .

Michael’s broken guitar pick

 .

Yellow Card’s violinist’s broken bow

 .

Two pedals from the rose Eric Kunse brought me

after I gave him my virginity

 .

A bible with my name gold foiled on the cover

 .

All of my friends’ college graduation announcements

(I never went.  To college or their graduations)

 .

My mom’s 40-year-old orange shag comforter

(still smells like childhood home)

 .

Dad’s old Harley shirts,

everything we made when he taught me how to sew,

 .

his mother’s vest with patches from every country she’s visited

(91)

 .

The nameless stuffed bear I won during a crawl race when I was 2

(cried the whole time)

 .

My childhood dog’s food bowl and collar

 .

The gum wrapper pot holder my mom meticulously folded

when she had mono as a kid

 .

The nightlight I used as a baby,

then as a toddler, then early adolescent, then teenager, then adult

 .

Converse Claire box

(shredded copy of a dinosaur “Lovely Love Story,”

anniversary card with 2 Chihuahuas

sharing a huge bone;

blank)

 .

The Fox Box

(ring made from a skeleton key, 4 unsent letters; minimum 5 pages each,

an old cell phone filled with text messages, a kit-kat bar from London,

A card that says “I hear Chicago is beautiful this time of year” in your hand writing,

3 pillow cases; all yours, your favorite Nebraska t-shirt, your plane ticket to me…

this box does not stop)

 .

The license plate to my childhood car

that eventually became my car

that I eventually sold to move to South Dakota

with my girlfriend

which I wish I didn’t do

My mom has a question for every thing

.               

     Of her husband she asks:

                        Why do you think it is the flower blooms that way?

                        Why do you think it is this road is taking so long to pave?

                        Why do you think it is the garage opens halfway sometimes?

                        Why do you think it is?

                        Why do you think it is?

                        Why is that?

 .

        Of her kids she asks:

                        Have you paid that hospital bill, yet?

                        Have you called your grandparents?

                        What did you talk about?

                        Who do you spend your time with?

                        What are they like?

                        What do they like?

                        What is the difference between Nihilism and Existential Misery?

.             

      Of the world she asks:

                        What is there left to do now that my children need a mother

                        less and less?

                        Have I failed them?

                        Is it my fault their seams peel apart so often, like

                                                their stuffing is a burst of worried seeds

                                                trying to reach the carrying wind?

                        Why can’t they name the wind something soothing and exact?

                                                That they might be filled with satiable want?

                       Why is that?

                       Why do you think it is?

                       Why do you think it is I cannot imagine, still, being anything

                       but a mother?

                       What else, World, is there to be?

so I am decidedly bad at Haiku, apparently, but in the spirit of 30/30 and transparency… here goes not hiding things even when I’m embarrassed of them…  I was just trying to break away from routine and stretch a little to not be so monotonous in style…

.

.

.

you don’t realize

how much shit is in the world

till you get pink eye

 .

which is to say till

womanhood is a pre-existing

condition

 .

which is to say till

women have no right to choose

to protect themselves

 .

which is to say till

women are silenced to save

face of predators

 .

which is to say till

you fall in love with someone

of the same gender

 .

which is to say till

gender is something to be

made into illness

 .

which is to say till

you are some sickening threat

to patriarchy

 .

which is to say till

you are not straight, white, male, de-

nying privilege

 .

which is to say till

you are a blackboy with a

pocket of skittles

 .

which is to say till

you ask who is being blind

on purpose or not

 .

which is to say till

law-keepers deny a raised

voice influenced them

 .

which is to say till

you are denied your own voice

when screaming for change

 .

which is to say till

you try to make difference

similarity

 .

when the point is not

to be the same, but to fight

from the corner you

 .

have been given the

cape in without turning it

into guilt or shame

I was born resilient

spilling myself into thorny rose bushes

Chased my brother through crooked sidewalks

barreled down uneven roads on a skateboard I didn’t know how to ride

and never looked back at the skin I left in the pavement

 .

By the time I graduated high school I was shocked to find myself catatonic with freedom

my instinct was to become terrified;

osteoporosis of the daring bone.

I sunk into a weary traveler who never went more than a few steps out the door

before looking at the world like the whole thing was something I could drown in

Eventually I had to swallow my panic and digest it into some kind of bravery

Until I could reach some forest

where the air tastes sweet as I climb picking off

fruits as I reach new branches

sometimes so rotten they might snap and I fall

for so long I will be so certain whatever bottom I reach will kill me

 .

I take the best and worst parts of myself

wrap them up in messy packages and gift them to people

trying to keep it together when they take it or leave it

I keep my secrets on the tip of my tongue

ready to pour like nectar

we call this getting to know each other

sometimes falling in love

We climb and scrape and bleed and sting to pluck it from

infinitely limbed beasts;

each one an apple, a sour plum, a fig, a wormy apricot

We call these the fruits of our labor

 .

Sometimes it is a peach

we bite through its skin and let the

drizzling blood sticky our chins

 .

Sometimes it is a lemon

we peel the skin, anyway, because we cannot manage the failure of waste

we call the burning juice a hard lesson

 .

Sometimes it is a Clementine

We become salivating and patient

smiling at the simple joy of not having to work until

our fingers bleed and sting

.

….. to be continued.  I’m exhausted.  And clearly petering out…. Hazzah 30/30.

Inside my head lives an attic

the attic is a collection of things one may never remember owning

there is a cedar trunk, like in every attic

inside the trunk is a blue dress

inside the blue dress is my grandmother’s spine

inside my grandmother’s spine is a ladder

the ladder is a secret

the secret is a climbing tree in the woods in Ohio

the woods are twisting with creeks

the creeks all lead home

home is a childhood memory

childhood memory is a series of doors

the doors are islands

the islands are desert

the desert islands are rumbling with laughter

laughter is an active volcano

volcanoes are filled with boiling wishes

wishing is hope

hope is unfair and dangerous

unfair danger is the sun

the sun rises everyday

every day is living

living is an attic

filled with things one may never remember owning

like grandmother’s spine in blue dresses

and secrets

and twisting memory creeks of childhood

and desert island volcano laughter when

all you have is the rising sun of

dangerous hope

{I sat down to write a poem… and was, like, “fuck it.”}

.

.

I was waiting for the bus

watching thirsty bugs climb toward the rain.

 .

Worms writhed and reached their bodies out of the wet dirt.

The whole ground pulsed.

Clumps of mudding earth rolled as worms pushed through.  

.

I was entranced and repulsed, but

I just stood there, silent and still, staring down

waiting for the bus.  

.

I really am terrified of worms.  

.

I am not afraid to die, but

I am so scared of my body being infested

with those things;  

.

that is the only reason I am still alive.

That night, with the gun, before the hospital,

all I could think about was worms.  

.

2 years later

waiting for the bus,

in my new rainy city,

I just stood there, staring down

not even angry that I was outside the ground,

not even imagining myself beneath it.

The first thing I remember

is my toddler body buoyed in the Great Salt Lake

standing there alone in the tide

Mom, Dad and Eric were on the beach

Water moved back and forth kissing my hips

 .

I remember most the illusion

of being carried backward,

like a gentle cradle comforting me away,

watching myself drift from land and

my family.

I took a few steps toward them, but I felt the pull take me

so I stopped and raised my cupped hand to wave

a tiny surrender

quietly weeping, repeating bye-bye

 .

I remember second most the calm

I didn’t know where I was going, but

knew I wasn’t coming back

I was not afraid

I felt ready

Mom and Dad laughed

What are you doing? Where do you think are you going? Come here.

 .

I think this is a metaphor for my entire life;

a slow drifting away filled with echoing beaches

 .

I am 25 years old, now

I live at the edge of a continent

creeping toward its bank like I am sneaking out the back door

One day I believe I will disappear into the ocean

I hope it swallows me whole, like I have swallowed whole

so much time that would have been better awarded to someone

who wasn’t constantly drowning

Some days I feel like my words are all gargle

I keep them bubbling beneath my lungs where they don’t spill

and rust my good intentions

Even when someone is calling out to me,

Amy?  What are you doing?  Where are you going?  Come here.

I just wave

salt water clogging in my throat against an unbreakable levy.

I swear I have so much to say

I swear I want to tell you I love you,

I want to tell you that I have a feeling,

that I am angry at my dad,

that I am proud of myself,

that I don’t want to be touched tonight,

that I don’t think I will ever be as much like my mother as I would like,

that I hate the Beatles,

that when it comes to sex and sleep, I will choose sleep 80% of the time,

that I have a recurring zit on my right ass cheek that I believe makes me    

       unlovable,

that I don’t think I’ve ever written a poem in my life

just things that sound kind of pretty when I talk about them,

that I can’t bring myself to say I am an artist because the word “artist” makes

      me uncomfortable,

that I am still in love with someone I haven’t known for five years;

       I am embarrassed that I pluck her name from the sap of my

       slobber when I remember I am afraid of heights,

that I am a sucker for the past because I am terrified of the future.

 .

There is a swimmer running out of air in my eyes

like a flooding house full of legs and arms and mouths and door knobs

Outside the sun is shining

You will wonder why the door does not open

You can see the water rising

It is a silent desperation that sounds like secrets or lying

because even simple questions make me choke

Amy?  Where are you going?  Where are you?

Amy?

Where are you?

 .

 .

 .

 .

…Being pulled in the rip tide

unsure where I will end up,

bobbing into

a w a y

filled with whitecaps of floundering honesty

repeating

good-bye

good-bye

because I can’t tsunami my leg-voice into what I want to say

to keep from disappearing into a nothingness

I may never return from

         said Voice, the Zipper Maker.

                I ask for a different job than hiding things.

                I confuse the sounds of hello and good-bye.

                I am almost always sorry for both.

    .           

said Teeth, the Violin String Maker.

                  I ask for a song that does not make people sad.

                  I chatter on through your bow-tongue telling stories and                                                                                                                                                                                      stories and

                                                                           stories that

                                belong to the conductor.

                                The conductor seems to only know sad stories.

    .           

said Stomach, the Swamp Maker

                                I dream of not being muddled; to

                                see through myself, to

                                find if I am reef beneath drudge.

                                                I surely am, I think.

                                                It is just pollution, I think, from

                                that which hovers above me.

 .

Do you hear that?

                Said Brain, the Television maker.

                   Voice says it is my secret keeper.

                   Teeth are ungrateful for the notes I give them to play.

                   Stomach thinks I have ruined its clean beach.

                   I think Stomach and Teeth and Voice are Blame Makers.

.

                Said Knees, the Bulldozer Operators.

                      There was still someone snoring in that house as we

                       turned it to splinter.

                      The foreman, we think, knew there was cold dinner on the

table and sees that as laziness or doubt.

                       He has no patience for doubt.

                       He thinks doubt is a thing one does not understand.

                       He destroys what he does not understand.

                       He thinks it will be replaced someday with more

                certainty and less

                sleep and less

                dreams and less

                leftovers.

 .

      said Hands, the Grave Diggers.

                      The people for whom we dig are almost always alive.

                      There is scratching beneath the coffins.

                      The undertaker, we think, does not deal with death well.

                      He buries things while they still breathe because

                      He is afraid of the way nothing lives forever.

                       He cannot bear the not knowing of time, so

                                       he must be preemptive.

 .

Do you hear that?

                Said Heart, the Woodsmith.

                      Knees think they have conscience.

                      Knees think they need more than to

                      stand and walk and dozer.

                      Knees, I think, don’t appreciate having a job to do.

                      Hands think I care for time or not time.

                      Hands think I cannot separate myself from my work.

                      Hands, I think, would ride the train

                      until the wheels fall off.

                      Brain and Heart run the operation.  We engine.  We motor.

                      We fight uprising.

                      Body thinks it can revolt, but it can only whine.

                      It wheezes and hisses and

                        hates its job.

                        Body thinks it is at the middle of love.

                       But Body is only there for people to point at and say, Look.

                      Look what that machine did.  Look at

                       its music.  Look at its lies.  Look what it buries. 

                      Look how even the good is shoveled under its muck. 

                     Look how it calls its parts abstract to say they are 

                      beautiful when faulted.

                   The way Body says, not me, never.