flood

{ i miss the days i wrote uncontrolled and daily. i've come to the conclusion that i'm not so much a writer as poet, not so much a poet as human, not so much human as woman. o woman. what does that mean?  i told him about the times i quit my studies because my advisers wanted to sleep with me. he said yes, that's wrong. i'm not saying it doesn't happen to men, i apologised, but with women it's just part of the fabric of life. my astronomy prof is in love and can't advise me unless i sleep with him.fa reals this is a stitch in the fabric. the closed bud of  my physics career curls around a lithopedian i named phd, searching for a father figure that doesn't want to fuck me.  here is my noble prize winning exegises co opted by the men i served. dead though i was, it was not their work alone but my name means nothing while theirs live on.  take a look at my grandchildren-golden hair shaved , sitting on the toilet, they beg love me, leave me alone. pole dance reality with me baby, have a drink then another and don't complain when you wake up next to a cunt sprung  sperm lake,
i steal these stories and feel complicit in exploitation. they aren't mine to write, no one asked me to do that. but i don't want to write about my lie of life anymore. i am...stunned...inaction ...don't dare to breathe in case once more you decide time's up and leave. how can i complain when i wanted to understand what you meant; trust as an issued document rather than simply expected because we are both the same animal.

i remember she said then i don't
remember the memories she told me.

i only remember crying that i did not
know her when we both grew up


 crying for the future i live in
no amount of stories will retrieve.

i remember none of them so i
do not page rape them is what i tell

me. writer without a clue, just
court reporter. so, what's new?

or this:{i recall now this fugue state: flow, review, pace smoke.  isolation blooms into :
nights of rain, he recalls a lonely bed swaddled in tropic rain,  pellets against window pane. a soft rocking , tongue exploring,  the bottom drops out and he's swallowed whole into the earth. he rolls out of bed into the aquafer, takes a breath of water.becomes a fish with a fishwife and pups and a mortgage to pay.  up here no one searches for the body.}


**********



it's a compelling story
in the collateral damage  of economic downturn sense

again the synopsis, the outline of the mole king

{i hope that writing it out will cure some blockage or moph it into a striped candy that will clear the line when the colors match}


post doc prof on tenure track, exploring non toxic chemistries. gets good press but somehow loses tenure at a first tier institution based on consensus. that means even his friends voted no. no one does not get tenure here, they said, unless they are a piece of shit. there is a replacement immanent with a five million dollar grant. they want him out of his lab, though there is still half a year left on contract. eventually they lock him out. when science and politics mix the results are toxic.

the day he's given notice he goes home to his wife. they've had problems from the start but after her father's death she told him the only way she'd fuck him is for another baby, which she got.  there are secret affairs they both deny not only to each other but themselves. he has not slept with her in...he does not remember when. he finds her to tell her the news, in bed, with a mutual friend. he runs the naked man out the door, then burns the clothes and wallet in a firepit outback. calls lothario's wife to advise. for his wife there is yelling and scorn  . he will have the divorce for dessert.

it's  brutal. contested with lawyers and restraining orders. he looks for new employment but academics would not only take him away from the area=a custody battle, but it tastes like turned potato soup . he vomits it out, takes a job in the homeland. which vomits him out, the contract expired. and all the retirement money on the patent and the lawyers and the non refinancing of the house the bank ate with all the contents inside and the  way the dream  crumbles like a planned detonation. and i think he wants to do it again. vindicate his existence, his discoveries, his title.

i am serious girlfriend number five. number nine. the numbers don't matter. we're serious. but he has ptsd. he has fits of rage. one time he picked a fight with my son as if to fulfill the gap the boy has not yet had with his own dad and also to fulfill his own need for that side of the father/son wars. he told me it was about disrespect and i pointed out how is that different from your own? this is my house, though you now pay rent, don't expect me to make you full partner so quickly my love. you are capricious, you are flightly , you lose your glow at the most perplexing times, most often after it's been the brightest ever. desperation makes a pretty flame.

so let's see how it goes where you are now, at fledgling institution, stretching your wings. the job, the prestige would impress so many, including serious love number mine-1. or would that be -1.5 considering you were dating me simultaneously to another woman worthy of your love. you say witchcraft, you say confusion and polyamory led you there. and here i am, a monogamish woman
independently falling apart.  you say i can help you, would you like some cock with that? and yes, yes i would.


because you're a boy and i'm a girl.











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the book was going to be about the quantum nature of love. how it moves between bodies sparkish, flamely, a dancer through matter. but i don't really understand that nature. you want me to love the you, here in body, as i have loved no other. but i love you as i have loved a few others. i do not yet love you as my daughter or my first boyfriend. those break you, you know? trust is a hinge. we are the door inner/outer. i would not die for you. i would not yet live for you. that is the crux. i won't live for you . oh shit. will i ever? . i don't trust anyone anymore. though i would still die for my kids, they certainly don't want to me live for them. so love morphs. the song playing just now was a repeat of the phrase "let it come and let it be". it was trying to get me to be sacrificial. trained to sacrifice each other for this noble life. form a single line.
different song.







so love morphs. it wears different bodies but feels the same. this is how you know it. and we get there, you and i . mostly when you're too exhausted to move. then i can reach out with waves and get your feedback. i don't know how else to put it. when your eyes are closed, you still travel in the quotidian, along streets and meadows. when i close mine, there are colors that vibrate or striate or twinkle. when yellow engulfs then turns purple, i am so close to god. how do you get there on those avenues? but it feels like it resonates in you, that body you wear . when you touch me when i touch you there is no pain. there is glow and mute and absence from this tired flesh. but then you move, and i am once again a fish. then you talk and the poet drowns. and she loves it, gives the finger to the gods.























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laundry time.