unironically i still need to archive some of my poems i only posted here so i will get on that and give me a little time before you stop hosting it 

you know why

love ya

witch dresses are back in style now i guess

http://www.freepeople.com/clothes-dresses-day-dresses/comfy-hooded-dress/

get the witch dresses once they go on sale. be prepared

i had an incredible dream, which provoked me to remain awake despite it being 3.30am so i could dedicate myself to remembering and plotting out as much of the dream as possible.

the dream, though, was about me dream-experiencing what i thought in the dream was a movie and then searching for what the title of the movie was, so that i could reexperience it, leading me to get involved in a situation i realized was the start of what i had perceived in the first place to be a movie... but was actually a sequence of events in my life that i was going to, because of the dream-within-a-dream, become trapped in

and i realized later, while awake and putting the details together, that my obsession with figuring out the details of this dream -- which was presented as a movie that i was desperately trying to recreate the very script and choreography from -- could itself result in me embarking down a path in the real world of inevitably causing the events of what i thought was a movie but were actually unfortunate inevitabilities in a dream to occur in real life

so now i don't know what the right thing to do is, because it was the most beautiful sadistic thing ever witnessed, but my obsession with trying to relive it even mentally may lead to me accidentally recreating its circumstances in real life and trapping myself within its whorl

what do i do. help me, oprah

how are you guys. i'm p good

A DOE'S SONG

The only position I have in which to
Sweat out the tension
Of being in your bed
Is in your bed.
I recite silently a cite once sited on Wikipedia:
In the post-traumatic, the fight-or-flight response becomes
Fight, flight, freeze,
Or fawn.

ORCHESTRATIONS OF THE HART

I cannot impress while pressed against.

I feel so large but must be so small.

I have so much time to think this over,
So much time to meditate on the suddenness
And completeness
With which the smallest, most incapable
Doe
Was distilled out of me.

I don't drive my car.
I am a passenger. I am passing. I am

I don't go anywhere.
I arrive with. I am second. I am

I don't choose.
I am spoken for. I am I am I am

I am I think, spiraling,
I am not a person.
I have so much time to think this over,

And the thesis I can't communicate
Is that I have forfeit my personhood
Because all of that therapy I had in
Another time, another age,
Had always stressed autonomy so much.

I consider whether I am an inautonomous person.
I have so much time to think this over,
But I cannot impress this upon anyone

While pressed against,

Pressed

Against walls
Through doors
Into the sheets
And around bodies, like an
Inautonomous glove
I am pressed.

I am the carry-on he impresses upon
Everything necessary to prevent
The carry-on from impressing anything
On anyone the carry-on must see,

For the carry-on is

Odorous, something controlled for
Circumstantially, something prepared for
Owned, something cared for
Used, surviving only ever through

The direct lineage of
Control,
Preparation,
And care,

Prior to use.

The hart sings my verses that appear on paper,
And I read from the liner notes
Written in by the hart.

The duet, as-written,
Is never voiced,
But the distinction is lost among

Compensating interpretation.

After all,
Two
Make a duet.
And we are two.

I have so much time to think about this,
And I just assume it doesn't seem suspect
Because every mind in the audience
Harbors now, and forever harbors,
The fantastic notion
Of a hart so doting, so loving and
Emphatic,
That he will sing the doe's part.

The compensating interpretation:
She must not want to sing.

The correlating thoughts,
Filling the mind with vapor immediately after:
She must not have anything she needs to say.

We pass through crowds as
Unremarkable
As any other duet, pair,
Coupling,
Because for these parts of the song,

I am voiceless.

But being in front of public eyes is the
Bearable business
Of being his doe.

In private, I must sing. I must always fawn.

THE GARGLE-SONG OF SOMEBODY ELSE'S WOMAN

I have all this time to think because, mentally,
I am always trying to be as far away from the present situation
As is at-all possible.

I think about The Handmaid's Tale a lot.
It had lots of tips for a doe,
A somebody else's woman.

Offred's way out is one of the
Only ways out
I might foresee for myself.

When the storm is already upon you,
Ofttimes the shortest path to
Respite,
The only reachable path to
Respite,
Is the path leading to the eye;
The eye, and its constant, unending
Outpouring of

Two-faced generosity

Recalling so clearly Atwood's epigraph:
"In the desert, there is no sign that reads
"Thou shall not eat stones."

I fill my cheeks with stones,
And sing what the hart wills I sing.

The moaning notes.
The squeaking notes.
The pleading notes.
The crying notes.
The fawning notes.
The loving notes.
The loving moaning
Notes, the crying pleading
Notes, the fawning,
Fawning notes,
The notes I must sing with
Mouth and belly
Full of stones
Without ever connoting
I have been eating stones in the desert.

Because it is verboten to eat
What I will
In any measure;
It is only safe to eat
What I am given
In all the measures I receive.

It would not do,
That he discovered I take strength from
The nutritive capacity of a rock
And not from his seed.

It would not do,
That he discovered I grow fat from
The comforting space-filling nature of stones
And not from his seed.
And not from his child.

I satisfy myself in the small margins
Of the placebo effect,
And the smaller margin
We each take when we have control
Over even the smallest,
Most insignificant or
Most harmful
Thing.

I eat stones in the desert,
To maintain the poise
That, should I ever draw near enough
The eye of the storm

That I might be threaded out of it,
Woven back into the warp of normal life
Via some escape engineered by the operative plan of

Fawning, fawning, fawning

And praying with all my heart to God
That for the duration of one chance,

Janus will not turn his head

And will act according to his better half.

Until then, I can only do what I must do
To preserve the storm,
His fluctuating whirlwind of feelings
Neither breaking me
Nor saving me.

I absolutely must take ownership of my role,
Not as victim but as chattel;
Taking ownership of ownership that I don't own
Affords me the position of
Property
And what property owns:

The master's service to the property:
To utilize,
To keep in working order,
To not leave by the side.

To keep close,
To shelter from the storm,
But never let it outside those borders.

Mouth full of stones,
I sing so beautifully
Everything he wants to hear;

I inform his investment. I substantiate his
Investment. I corroborate his investment,
Invest myself into his investment so he
Will invest himself into his investment and
Never discard his investment.

I abide
So that
The bond
Matures.

I fill my cheeks with stones,
Day-to-day
And I sing squeaking,
Moaning,
Emphatically,
Orgas
mically
Draw
ing
out,

Drawing
In
Breaths when I can,
Spending as much time as I can
Aloof in thought,
Because the question posed
In those moments I am permitted to

Pause, and catch my breath,

I answer quickly, and never question myself:

Will I sing, or will I die?

THE SONG YOU WILL NEVER HEAR

It becomes commonplace to congratulate myself
On still being alive.

I grade, separate and create distinction between
The lesser
And the greater
Acts of valor. Acts of performance.

I sold a woman to a man,
Who received a man at the airport,
And never hurt me.

Because of how I carried my baggage.
Because of where I stood, waiting,
And the seemingly "idle" actions

I repeated for near on an hour

Waiting for him to see.

My contrition, my scatterbrainedness,
My vulnerability,
My weakness,
Everything that I broadcast

Was broadcast

Because he saw it walking into the room.
Seeing someone repeat these things for an hour,
You receive a different impression.
Like all the verses of this song I have written
Before I have sung,
I wrote it on risk
And swallowed the risk singing it.

If the hart ever knows
His partner manipulates him,
I don't know what the hart will do.
This is a risk I do not swallow.

The doe's song is only artful performance.
It is not technical.
It is the carefully-crafted performance
I must make constantly,
Under all scrutiny and
Possibility of scrutiny,
In order to create something of such

Magnificent

Beauty

That no one ever knows. The knowing dies with me,
Whether I die or simply,
One day,
No longer am forced to sing this song.

The doe sings tomorrow into being,
When otherwise tomorrow is never guaranteed.

I cannot fight.
I cannot flee.
I cannot simply freeze,
And hope for the best;

For the best
Follows
Fawn.


Showing no duplicity but honest love
And singing, showing no spite or
Regret, singing, showing no disdain,
Singing, from the very first day
To whatever will be the very last

Because to the doe,
No tomorrow is ever guaranteed.

I am an artist and my song was more beautiful
Than any you ever heard,
Though you'll never hear it sung with honesty,
And you'll never understand the structure or
Content, and you'll never,
I hope, understand the need.

The doe sings tomorrow into being.
The rooster only picks up where she left off.

Something, though, bothers me about this.
It's a question of timing.

I silently recite, ofttimes,
A cite once sited on Wikipedia:
In the post-traumatic, the fight-or-flight response becomes
Fight, flight, freeze,
Or fawn.

This cite can't be right.
The reference text is making an astute observation, but it can't really be right,
Because these adaptations take place before we are ever
Post
The trauma.
Because I survived the very first abuse.
And you can't say the trauma was over
Just because I had learned to cope.

Fawning, in the text,
Is wrongly attributed only to the survivors.
I know so many today,
Who still sing the doe's song,
That can only
Wish

That they were
Post
Trauma.