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Literature Text
I dreamt I was a necromancer,
dreamt I was a demigod
who resurrected cultures, peoples,
skin and teeth and bones and hair.
I dreamt I was a logician, clinician,
an imagined anthropologist,
a linguist tinged with dark,
dark magic:
drew dialects into my mouth,
reawakened languages,
undid a hundred hundred years.
but it's a heavy, pricy spell.
I take the weight of ages and ages.
the yokes of seven continents
clang upon my pale brown hands.
dreamt I was a demigod
who resurrected cultures, peoples,
skin and teeth and bones and hair.
I dreamt I was a logician, clinician,
an imagined anthropologist,
a linguist tinged with dark,
dark magic:
drew dialects into my mouth,
reawakened languages,
undid a hundred hundred years.
but it's a heavy, pricy spell.
I take the weight of ages and ages.
the yokes of seven continents
clang upon my pale brown hands.
Literature
to be discontinued
your hands are too small.
they always slip through the cracks in your fingers,
the ones you love,
you just can't keep the together.
but your thighs are too wide,
spacious, filled with crevices that line
like roads on a map.
you are not able to part to let anyone in.
canyons.
sometimes you feel like empty space.
eyes like stars - dead but
still shining.
what if galaxies are just people
who couldn't find their dreams in the sea
of smoke; wow, that's a lot of
failures.
& other times you feel like streets,
worn away by the tires of people who just
don't give a shit about you.
they just run you over because it's easy &
they don't have tim
Literature
inertia
i think i broke
some bones in my sleep.
i remember waking up
and saying i will do it in the morning.
my floor is littered with broken things
i meant to fix. there is a mosquito
in here growing fat on the things
i have intended to change.
the radio whose battery light is flashing
a slow sos at the darkening ceiling.
the piles of old letters stacked like snow.
the people who told me
they were lawyers and insurance
brokers in the elevator
one time at two in
the morning with the stench
of death on their breath.
the day my body stopped
healing.
Literature
Ephemeral
1.
i wake up and tear the sun
from the sky like this is a
grade school art project and i
am supposed to share something
worthy of myself-- i think
there is a black hole nestled
betwixt my lonely ribs,
devouring anything alive.
on days like these, my greatest weakness
is weakness and i am my own fatal flaw.
we live by mantras and my ears ring
‘i hate every piece of me’
(he put his head to my chest
and heard me dying;
call me beautiful now)
2.
we are the false ends of sunken
universes, we are pieces of
dead galaxies and you are
stardust, god, you are
beautiful.
i believe that this is all just a dream
by someone with an
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yada yada, more mixed race angst
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