HAILEY LEXII

I need to start treating my home like a prayer – but I can’t – for my love-become-roommate-by-
impulse is low and I’m mixed-towards-manic, so this is no house of the Lord; there are dishes.
We separate plastics and compost but piling ignorables show off dysfunction in us and the world.
Four hours slept: half with a team analyzing my chemistry. I rush to psychology, physically
cradle a cortex. Feel surreality seep through my gloves, but I may be confusing existence with
whatever fluids they use to envelop a brain. This morning, a grim-faced psychiatrist increased
my lithium; lab partners chisel

out blood like balsamic 

like jam on a knife

scrape ventricles raw
between fornix

callosum 

we ask why the organ 

is bleeding in death 

perhaps aneurysm?

perhaps, people laugh,
baked half-way

something in killing 

the lamb

and in thickness of liquid 

congealed by a firework 

webbing, where prodded

by humans, the creature 

was granted fair death 

I’m unholy with plastic

gloves plastic chair craning

a slab of a cranium

throw it away

biohazard and brief

designation

wondering at my own lesions

and fair death, what

waits for me

in my own sheepishness

and purple walls, like rain

like Prince? I wonder

were they velvet

flush and mega-ultra-rich?

my father said to put it in a poem

that’s usually my line when people bitch

I think he meant it nice. I think

he meant, like document his

escapades, make meaning 

from this shit

idk, I guess

it starts like ha-ha

reminiscence, plugged

the toilet, hungover vacation 

but he came here with a carbon plate 

like preparation, lines in front of requisite 

and watching, not to state the obvious

PLEASE STOP – I guess – as he inhales 

dust mixed in with what-the-fuck-is-that

I’m scared / I’m scared to ask

It’s crazy
                    to cope.
                                            It is crazy

to get off the bus from eutopia, aching
for love from your city to substitute missing.

The concrete can feel
like a hug if it’s ritualized
between cracks, calculated. The closeness
becomes more reliable. Everything

feels like the peak
of a spoke
till the process of time and of motion propels
you like Flaming June,
crumpled up, sobbing and posturing limbs
on a loveseat and bloodied.

It's               crazy.

In some shots, she hasn’t
a face, or she’s lemony, ochre, in vogue.

I saw one where she’s painted on pieces.
Imagine appeasing identity,
then.