At the beginning of the month, Elena gave Terry four prompts. She engaged in fevered writing with each of them and gave the results back to Elena, who then used the words from that fevered writing to create this dis•articulations poem.
DOUBLE GAME: FACE SHOT
I. Metamorphosis: Everyone Was
Quiet. Yell.
There will be road rage and stones, a few
months forgotten in each other,
lease of two who need more.
Taking double oxygen turns, I will lose everything.
There will be white tablecloth moss and tiny cake
flowers. But only a moment
will I get that big red heart, choice
of donor, mourning a booster shot-start in flames,
energy transfer, too much energy…
spontaneous testosterone seed.
Now: Who more tame and spent––
fossil job boss, sitting maniac, scientists over an iceberg––
who’s going to make me me,
an anthem for me? (Two sunsauce girls?)
Double game orbit. Lunar fluid-
feeling over the head, twirling. This too I take to mean
something is gathering to invigorate both players for
a moment. It is. It was. But
to win was a forced will of forgetting
about her.
II. The Beginning Too: Her-self, My-self
But I don’t want trash game, hopscotch choice-play, to start
singing the girl holiday, don’t want need, sauce hoola-hoop, don’t
want (bullet shame in wanting) to combust over
the great way darkness, its frozen stadium
in the middle trapped… In the somewhere, this
spinning in, first leap onto, ending with, –– this
heard-about jumping left and left, left toward
the Japanese square to stand in as if
my life, its underside water (fish-breathing by herself begins)
celebrates my birthday pekid end.
Because, like a two uncle blood transfusion,
the stuffed cake bled raspberry sauce
and an aunt started screaming a shit-faced key in C
toward the perfume sun…
the wrecked table, its frozen, pale surface,
everyone ending there, forgotten, in the flipped over
face-place, myself, argumentative and anemic,
what’s long been a taking under-side,
untypical family seed of myself
laid in the solid ground’s iceberg where my name
(how someone becomes)
then shame-played around my hips,
that tame-time Panda patience punched
out of you/me. Because of this
long attach-kind of development, it forces breathing, bones
to grow, cake mass to quadruple, forces you to get even,
to release the fluid rope of spent names
when jumping onto/in/under the water…
that underside other anthem game, the kind of great
feeling you get into when, beneath
breathtaking shots of the dark, you both
can birthday yourself for a first time
in the picture.
dis•articulations 2015 