if i could still tune a guitar i would sit with my window open--listen car tire hush--that would be the E string-- gentle sighs-- orange soda can crack-- fizz-- pop-rock kiss my face-- these freckles-- hush hush exhale with each strum-- i'd find a robin to sing A string A string-- a door bell-- service bell-- here is the entrance to the rings of the tree stumps in my parent's front lawn-- the ones that used to be trees-- the cicadas get a string they always get a string-- i have yet to out run their ambient compositions-- D string-- thrum thrum thrum in their gadget teeth-- what mouth does a cicada have? what kind of mouth do i have? Big enough to swallow the old rusted strings-- twirl fork-- it's all in the twirl-- & every time i open my mouth now my teeth turn into piano keys-- out of tune & complaining about how discordant my sense of sound has become-- there-- there right above the telephone wires-- that's the G string-- bird feather fall-- twig snap & murmur of airplane light laughing glow-- mocking the stars with it's emerald blare-- it would play trumpet if it were in band or maybe the french horn-- sometimes i open my mouth & i can only hear the sound of a trumpet playing TAPS like i would from my backyard-- lips against cold silver mouth piece-- i made air-- i shook stones-- the B is elusive-- the kinds of sounds that are gone before you hear them-- mom dropping pancake batter into the iron skillet-- dad's "i love yous" thrashing on my car window as i drive to the supermarket at night to sit in the parking lot-- take in muffle voice & shopping cart wheel-- the B string is the right song coming on the radio just as you click the knob-- you & only you there as a witness-- the car is sound proof now--you sing along & don't know all the lyrics-- invent your own-- the B string-- your own laugh-- my own intangible laugh-- a firework shimmering out my throat-- i just want to catch it & make it my B string so when i feel like no part of me will ever ring again i can play & play until i vibrate-- sing string-- this skin a fret board -- a railroad track to walk my fingers on-- there is not train anymore but there is tuning pegs & my black canvas shoes-- yes the last one-- the thin E string farthest from all of us that is where the conversation plays again & again the one where you say you love me & you mean it & the only way you know someone loves you is if their "i love yous" carry a tune-- they live-- swing dance with each other the i & the love & the you-- holding hands & kissing each other's cheeks-- i love you is a breathing thing-- mouth in the 'o' of love-- it's not big enough to trip down into-- bit is vast enough to drop coins down-- this wishing well-- this trembling voice-- leaves broken blood vessels across my collar bone-- leaves me strummed & shuddering-- how could i have swallow all those string?
Uncategorized
11/10
i tilt i unscrewed the lid of my water bottle & found inside the Pacific ocean-- clear blue as it is in pictures & on google maps-- there down there-- all those sting rays & branches of coral-- thrashing kelp forests-- i know nothing of the pacific ocean & she knows nothing of me-- i twist the lid back on & tilt-- there all the schools of fish flourishing apart-- stones shift-- there goes the tide-- snapping like coffee stirrers-- the ocean water brown like stream water after a violent august rain-- all in my water bottle-- i try to fit inside but it's all too big-- too far to fall-- there i perch on the lip-- the whole pacific ocean a step or a slip away-- isn't that so much like falling asleep-- like leaning on a pane of glass waiting for it to become water--i tilt the ocean in the hopes of not falling asleep so soon-- i want to stay up & float on a thought of you & the almost ocean tilting & tilting like an hour glass-- we're running out of time-- stop the hour glass-- tilt it sideways & drop it on the sidewalk-- we'll desert walk-- arid & sandstorm in our eyes-- we broke the hour glass for this-- the only water left is the pacific ocean i brought in my water bottle & you'll say no-- no we can't drink the pacific ocean-- not with all the pre-existing biodiversity issues-- the dying reefs-- their ghost-white branches like elk horns jutting from stone-- there there is mounted the deer head-- the walrus tusks-- oh what about humans love for trophies? if so than why not mount dead coral on the rec room walls-- if we drink we'd have to swallow all those blooms of jelly fish-- stingers on our throats-- their undulating bodies becoming the water-- how bold are your to take back your water? how can your blame them & their florescent limbs-- but we must drink-- the impulse to swallow oceans is one humanity was born with-- don't drink the sea water don't drink the sea water-- so, then, what will become of all that land emptied of sea? we can't drink the pacific ocean--no it would be better to dry up in the desert of this hourglass-- take one sip-- just one sip with me-- i won't tell anyone-- we can just lay here-- up against my window pane-- praying the glass intends to hold us-- i'm sorry i broke the hourglass i hold the water bottle to your lips you take the first drink-- the sand is sugar-- the water sweet-- we tilt & turn-- start over the hour glass-- this is how long you have left to love him-- before the sand turns back into salt water-- before the window pane gives in & there are no oceans left to drink-- i grow elk horns made of coral-- remember me-- mount them on the rec room wall-- bleached & blossoming with rock candy-- screw the cap on the pacific ocean-- tilt it sideways & water me swim--
11/09
cracked phone screen lake//float lace up your ice skates & shake your snow globe body full of sleet-- phone screen shadow-- evening has boney fingers & holds a bamboo brush to paint black across your face-- i lay in bed-- the intimacy between my phone & my eyes--a sort of storm-- a sort of lightning storm-- crack the lake & fall in-- what is this bed but a place to fall from? i'm feeling bed snap like tooth pick-- he says-- do you feel like a brick held up by match sticks? & i hate that i do-- i do & the brick falls through the ceiling of my room & cracks-- smacks down hard-- snaps my nose-- shatters water-- ripple through sunday-- through morning-- a hurricane of bird wing beat-- room of ice & bed times unspent-- do not trust the lake when it tells you it will freeze over in december-- the children fall in again-- their arms like saplings reaching out from beneath the surface-- they're statues now-- it was always too late-- slip into your cracked phone screen now-- cold cold water splashing on bed sheets-- you're coming in after them-- your think you can save a statue --swim-- thrash plunging between pixels-- relieved to be smaller-- to be so snug in your own palms-- she plucks each desired hour of sleep out of my body--pulling the thread-- the frayed hem line i lay awake on the surface of my phone screen-- cracked lake-- crack face-- nose bleeding into water--into sleet-- was it god who hurled the first brick? was it god who made my legs from match sticks-- striking each other as i run myself into fire in the morning-- light the candle wick of my tongue & sing a song in the language only the apostles would understand-- those twelve ragged ivy plants-- their red knuckles clutching the heels of their god as he shook them each like a snow globe-- maybe it was me-- i was the brick & the match sticks my bed & the lake still my phone screen & maybe i haven't been floating-- maybe i've been sinking so peacefully that i hadn't even noticed bubbles trailing from my mouth-- i click my phone off-- pick shards of glass out of my hands--stigmata-- that's not fitting i think to myself-- let blood soak into my pillow-- the act of sleeping is a promise between your body & the threat of the water-- like kissing the cracked surface of a lake & daring yourself not to drink i lay awake-- i do not pray for sleep-- i float//sink
11/08
one big tangle of yarn isn't it all just one big tangle of yarn? God with his reading glasses on-- sitting on the edge of his king sized bed-- in his plaid red & black slippers legs crossed-- leaning over the world which is also a basket of yarn-- spool after spool ceaselessly entwining with each other-- God puts on his reading glasses-- silver grandmother frames-- pushes them to his nose-- he picks up strand after strand in an attempt to decirn where one life beings & another ends-- he holds us-- me the scratchy thick blue wool & you the thin soft threads of august & rip lips plucked from raspberry bushes-- God pulls & pulls & pulls-- more color greens & silk november tendons & there is the sinew of my mother-- course brown & grey-- knot on knot-- there is the exact spot where i hold onto my brother-- desperate & burnt orange as our hands-- there we swing as fearful as the swings in the park-- God leaves the knot in & reaches in deeper-- heart beat after heart beat enmeshed with another-- God keeps telling himself he's going to knit a blanket-- one day one day a great blanket with all of us in it-- patch by patch-- until every person has a tongue latched-- pearl-- sewn to another's mouth-- there would be no need for words because we would run our fingers over each other's stiches & feel every single meek & thin spoke of our bodies-- God takes off his glasses-- he begins to weep-- his unkempt box of yarn-- a jumble-- a mess--matted in areas from loves forlorn tangles-- gripping-- knotting each other-- he weeps because he wonders how many nights it will take him just to unravel all these spools-- these tired & hope searching mouths full of string-- he caresses each one individually-- his fingers a kind of apology we save for handfuls of blueberries there i am-- scratchy blue wool-- he holds me & all my wretched coils--smiles as he whispers that if all else fails i can at least be made into a nice sweater-- a nice sweater to pull over his head-- to help cast out the draft in his bed room-- it's late & he's tired so he puts me back & promises that one day i will be sweater & you & you & you a green scarf-- a pair of mittens-- he mummbles as he falls asleep oh yes the world beneath his bed-- a tangle of yarn-- don't let go of me-- i don't want to be a quilt slung over the sofa in the parlor-- i want to be this mess-- oh god i want to be this mess-- my knots making us into a fishing net-- reel in reel in-- yes god we will be fishers of men-- arm in arm-- me the unmade blue sweater & you the green green scarf--
11/07
take a deep breath don't tell me to breathe-- there isn't enough air left for all of us-- i don't want to breathe i want sink-- watch bubbles bound out my mouth-- break on the ceiling of water-- there there right there was the last bit of air we had left sink-- i want to hold my breath & sink like i learned in swim lessons-- skin turned to stone at the chlorine murky pool bottom-- there i would think to myself "i will break the world record right now & no one will see me" hold everything for 22min23sec-- clouds stop moving-- they hold hands-- they know this is the end-- rivers freeze-- rejecting time-- they steal red numbers from digital clocks-- eat the sound of every alarm-- there is no splashing-- rain hangs like your grandmother's pearl necklace & her matching clip-on earrings-- birds plummet the air stolen from beneath their wings-- tucked now under my pillow beetles & butterflies hit pavement-- it was me it was me i took all the air & harbored it inside myself where it could do no more harm-- don't tell me to breathe-- i don't want to breathe-- i'm just saving up enough air to glide-- i want to be a tiny bat echo-locating my body between trees-- silhouette watched voyeuristic by the moon-- beneath my rib bones is a grotto abandoned by the tides-- moss creeping along each skinny rung of bone-- here the wind swirls angry-- smacks against the corridors of my body-- ringing marrow-- these bells-- the wind-- the gale groping for an exit-- don't tell me to breathe-- don't tell me to breathe-- there's no enough air-- there's not enough birds to fall limp-- or dragonflies dive bombing on roofs-- there goes the leaves now-- all of them at once-- there wasn't enough air to keep them so green there i am-- i used to be so green-- burnt orange boy-- cascading from my mother's gnarled limbs-- her femur bare-- as i fall she cries "could i not keep just one leaf" i don't want to breathe i don't want to i don't want to my fingers dig into my knee caps-- wind thrashes & in one valiant thrust every piece of me becomes one cadence-- wind strumming vein--it's me the tuning fork & metronome click-click-click faster now faster now i gasp for air
head-space
clumsy hold me like a handful of letters-- balance telephone wires-- grow feathers loving you is a head space: loud with your fingers in mine-- loving you is a head space a song never big enough for words palm spin horizon-- tip moon street blur is a head space: loud with your fingers in mine-- loving you is a head space fall off clouds-- stop-light kiss-- flicker window candle-- star-run amiss this is how night becomes an avalanche-- loving you is thunderous & phonograph-- your fingers in mine-- loving you is a head space
11/06
becoming a sky so close to crashing today every car was so close to crashing-- they stepped on each other's heels & observing from my parked green volvo i leaned the seat back & watched over them-- a guardian angel-- keep my wings in the glove box-- a black-hoodie man stepped in between cars-- rush of pavement around him-- yes right there-- that's god-- he's down here again wanting some sort of sky-- wanting to touch those hesitant winds chasing every single truck down headlight glistening highway-- he stands between it all-- a trapeze artist on the double yellow lines & every single car was so close to smacking right into god-- snapping all his bones-- he'd crumble-- become a plastic bag-- ghostly dance above traffic-- i wonder what that must feel like? cars whirling around you-- radio tunes gliding-- paper airplane songs-- what that must feel like to have to come all the way down here just for a sky-- i imagine him-- god in his black hoodie sitting on the end of a cloud-- his angels have headlights-- he leans back & there is no such thing as the sky in heaven-- the sky in his own body-- there everyone goes-- surveying the contours of his skin-- tucks hands inside pockets & as night falls so do stars glow beneath his flesh-- i feel bad for my god-- catching a septa bus to come down here on this cloudy grey day just to glimpse red tail lights-- just to feel goose bumps as cars//angels dance around him-- oh he was never in any danger-- i pull my knees into my chest & wonder if my car is one of those cars that's also so close to crashing-- so close to becoming a tin can smashed under my father's heel on the driveway-- i'm trying to see the grace in it all & not the crashes & the broken glass & my god standing there watching in his black black hoodie-- today the sky believes in rain even though it never comes-- today i open my glove box only to check to make sure my guardian angel wings are still inside in case i need to use them-- today god was a trapeze artist & i not quite an angel or a man & every single car was so close to becoming a sky--
let’s watch a movie
& by "let's watch a movie" i mean i'm looking for a slick way to ask you to hold me longer-- for approximately 1h45min to 2h30min-- this is how i ask you to kiss me while the credits roll--faint ending music falling over us-- we lay dripping with the names of costume artists-- producers & sound editors-- shake their letters off blankets-- when i say "let's watch a movie" i mean oh love, will you close the blinds-- i don't want the street lamps to remind me that beneath our skin is only light i mean let me set my earrings on the end table-- i want to show you how to unravel me sock by sock-- an inside out t-shirt-- the foot steps of my back-- i mean i'll teach you the constellations only i know-- there-- can you see the willow tree from the gravel road behind my parent's house -- it's arms of comets-- trunk thick as orion's belt-- i'm really just asking you how long you want to hold me & if my room is dark enough for you to notice how small i am & how small i feel loving you-- yes right there-- on the ceiling-- that's me heart-- only an arrangment of stars-- a myth a constellation i'm asking you to trace the lines on my hands all the way down the streets outside-- come find me-- kiss me on the neck-- tell me what you've been thinking about & i'll tell you i've been writing-- & writing & writing & writing writing contellations i can show you-- writing my mouth across your chest-- when i say "let's watch a movie" i mean-- here-- this is how to love me-- treat me gently-- my blood vessels rapture-- supernova for you
11/05
he pulls another trigger//gunshot brother like swallowing birds-- blue jay blue jay a dive bomb down my throat-- sky-- a shadow puppet-- we--the silhouettes of hands projected on god's bed room ceiling-- earth shook-- recoil-- we watch an avalanche rewind-- boulders back into place & there is my brother holding a gun-- shooting a gun-- he doesn't aim-- there's bullet-hole wounds in the clouds-- they stagger home-- they cry mother mother-- as they bleed rain-- as they shake in each other's arms-- look what you've done-- you've brought grey into the bedroom ceiling-- how am i supposed to sleep with the echoing of each gun shot-- ricochet bullets-- each star rings-- pinball machine-- i am that little silver ball-- that little silver ball in the pinball machine-- in gun barrel-- Billy pulls the trigger-- & suddenly it's a water gun & no one is afraid anymore-- imagine if it was always a water gun-- a man standing at Los Vegas with a water gun-- a hotel room full of water guns-- dead bodies from water guns-- their bodies melting into dew-- we people of morning dew & sun-shower-- that's how easy we break isn't it? & the sky didn't bleed-- not yet-- & there couldn't never have been enough triggers-- & I was a child-- we were children-- barefoot backyard July-- dropped water balloons from the deck on Billy's head-- below my feet earth shook-- who know a water balloon could also be a fire bomb striking Tokyo-- match stick head people-- flames scalding feet-- who taught us to play with such weapons? who fills a bomb with fire? we say-- it was water-- it was always a water gun-- & the sun recoils & laying in my room i look up at the shadow puppets marching to war on my ceiling-- i hear the faint but clear snap of my brother's gun-- he's just shooting-- there's nothing to aim at-- there's only a row of trees taking shrapnel in their knees-- i am the silver ball-- i'm lodged in soft damp earth it's quiet there finally-- i'm laying on bed & my ceiling starts to bleed-- clear rain-- i tell it to stop-- i tell the ceiling that there's nothing wrong with guns-- they're only full of water-- it's just like rain-- it's just like rain-- i say as the walls shake of these reverberations-- is that church bells? someone knocking this time of night? i swallow another flock of blue jays-- becks & claws scratching my all the way all the way down-- he pulls another trigger
11/04
in search of medusa today i woke up already feeling like a stone so i figured i would go & find medusa-- turn statue-- feel this body heavy as it can be-- i woke up wanting to sink so badly-- wanting to feel every inch of myself grey & ponderous-- touch me-- i'm cold-- i'm marble & stone-- your daughter of bones-- phosphorus femur & child of clavicles-- oh statue statue-- i have been told before that medusa was an oak tree-- a handful of dry leaves-- that she laughed in the ripples of a frigid late-autumn stream-- there--trickling down from a gash in my knee-- i tripped & broke like a white carton of eggs-- sticky in my own hands-- these yolks-- these un-used suns & some people say medusa takes walks by the creek-- some say she works the drive through window at McDonalds-- others claim they have heard the hiss of her serpents as she paces library shelves-- she's just been searching for a place she can be less of a burden-- her snake hair bites air-- sometimes even her own face-- fang marks on her cheeks-- oh they call her hideous-- winged female monster-- & she reads about herself from a big book of mythology in one of the comfy chairs in farthermost corner of the library next to musty encylopedias from 1986 & maps with sea monsters snarling from each corner-- i approach her cautiously-- put my hand up to calm one of her snakes only to be bitten-- i lick the blood off my knuckle go she says go you don't want to be stone-- i promise you-- you don't want to be stone-- i tell her that i already feel so heavy-- that i already feel the carpet as the ocean & i sink & sink & sink-- sinking past the ghostly hull of the titanic & amelia airheart's plane & atlantis's bright city lights-- i ask her if she can see me sinking medusa-- she doesn't glance at me-- she glues her green eyes to book page-- she reaches out clumsily for my hand-- we interlock fingers-- she points to a line in the text "Medusa was beheaded by the hero Perseus-- her head retained the ability to turn it's onlookers to stone" i frown-- close book-- i tell her there is nothing about her that is hideous-- that they don't understand her-- that they don't understand us-- i beg her to see me-- turn to me so that i can be as heavy as i felt beneath my covers this morning-- heavy as i feel trapped in my own gravel skin-- i feel the snakes of my hair bite gashes on across my forehead & neck-- i bleed like dew-- oh medusa hold my hand in yours-- we'll keep our faces to books-- i can be your statue of skin & heavy heavy bone--
Robin Gow 