Prefix, Root, and Suffix by Nullibicity, literature
Prefix, Root, and Suffix
We never say "I love you,"
because since I first kicked you
headfirst out of the womb
we've been the matches
relighting each other's lantern
through each power outage.
There are some things
too powerful for words.
We don't say "I love you,"
because it's too often been used
as reassurance after a betrayal of its message,
because it has so often been reduced
(much like we were from our names
to our birth's quantity).
It is not our measure.
Instead, we've learned
to weigh emotion in palms -
you, holding the aftermath of my body,
while I screamed over tears - a banshee,
as I buried and mourned
so many realities, possibilities,
I’d like to walk away from myself
showing more than the back of
my head, but there I go.
My story is on the wall,
shadows growing from fires
lit in the night -
I can’t look away,
in its prophetic visions.
There are three silhouettes,
and one of them’s a sword.
I’m standing on both ends.
I’m the stain and the carpet,
wondering how to come clean
without losing myself.
I’m the nervous system
and the autoimmune response,
the miner dig-dig-digging for riches
and the fumes waiting to smother
like Darwinism and religion
gnawing both sides of a bone
There’s a waiting room,
shadow climbing from the floor
to the wall, but I’m not coming.
Seven years fold themselves into a drawer
easier than origami, our stories in pencil,
bound to fade over time and in revisitation.
Revisitation is painful.
The mornings still
have coffee rings in memory,
textbooks littering words of the “greats,”
like a reminder of their deaths,
but we, of course, were livewires...
until you sat next to me,
as I held the clay on the spinning wheel
for hours, because she was dead.
She was dead and she deserved better.
We learned what it was to outlive another
with youth still wi
The champagne bottle explodes.
We are found in the sky, the puddles...
in the bubbles floating to die on the surface.
But we are golden sunshine rays,
overflowing, falling wild,
tumbling with no concept of the impact,
This moment will not come again;
these selves will metamorphose.
This moment will not come again.
It bubbles, with our laughter, to the surface,
and we are left
with pieces in our hands.
My joy is a ringtone for your smile.
Don't pick up. Not all the time, at least.
I want to feel this.
You are a source of phenomenon.
I pull void lottery tickets
from my pocket and wonder
over winning you, instead.
I had a dream a mountain
told me what a woman was,
and I stood at her base
while she whispered of love.
She pointed up at the sun.
"This does not think it is much.
See, you have that in common...
you must accept you are enough.
Though frequently reserved,
you should still remember
that love freely given
is love that is treasured -
is love that returns."
The valley winds shook my ribs.
I was aware of empty,
how to criticize its depth,
when her gentle voice steeled:
"Do not criticize what manages growth
in the soil of a field
you've neglected to sow.
Life is about experience
and you, in your mind's view,
are what you produce."
The dream b
Miserable people are everywhere.
The dental hygienist sees my tattoo
and launches into her couple’s therapy.
A 45-minute check up crawls
into the skin of a toddler
who continually stops to stare and stare,
its fist falling down its throat.
“What does it mean?” She asks.
“It’s a reminder,” I try,
licking the vowels from my teeth.
There are too many people
in the room, and the ceiling keeps
spelling "company" as I swallow
down my blood.
The window becomes an eye
that never blinks, 90 minutes
finding all its eyelashes
I walk over dried worms, the day after rain, and wonder if their lives (defined by these last moments) were courageous or moronic. I wonder if I am the splinter or the lion—and who would be the splinter? Doesn't someone have to be?
I crawl on my hands and knees to find the river. Trees grow from its overflow. There has been too much rain this week. There has been too much rain this week. Where are the silver linings—the tree in front of me grows proudly as the water laps around its thighs. Ah, I muse, I think I understand the splinter.
Two trains come by. Two trains thunder through this railroad town, and they whisk the chocolat
Five Words In Place of Alone by Nullibicity, literature
Five Words In Place of Alone
I’m a lo
Come sit with me,
darlin', and please
take off your coat.
Tell me adventures
of the sun and the moon
and whatever else comes
in pairs or attractions.
Remember to give me those
five stars before you go.
in the mud
of a dried up
I’m a lo
I’m a lo
and you don’t have to worry
about me: consistency
is my horizon, predictability
my city. And remember those
stories? I'm a pair with the moon
and the stars and the absence
of sound, and until I rise in the ash
of proximity, I’ll always
Your memory greets me
like a sun flitting between the trees;
it is an overcast day and
you do not know me.
The clouds linger where I disappear
on the hospital bed, thinking of how
you sleep with your casket.
Couldn’t they at least buy a better bed?
I think of how one bed begs more remembrance
than the line of pictures hung up on its curtain.
(I feel as if we keep playing ghosts in the bedsheets,
clothespins the only things holding them
up in your head; I watch them come loose over
and over again).
I bring your laundry, and the sun doesn’t shine
for your favorite blouse. I don’t tell you:
“you used to wear pink
22 years growing. Forest-dweller, friend of the moon, shy hermit crab... a pagan, seeking. I howl to coyotes at 1 in the morning and am a self-proclaimed music-swimmer (mostly, I drown). Admittedly, I'm not very interesting, but I am fairly friendly. Feel free to drop me a line. Or a poem. Or your favorite song.
my activity on this site can be compared to guerilla warfare:
I'm currently attending school while working as a research assistant in two projects. (Why yes, I need to learn how to say "no" sometime. But it's bringing in the money.)
trees, racing rivers, singing poorly to the moon, Lord Huron, Dead Poets Society, Pride and Prejudice, ambiguity.
nullibicity: n. - the state of being nowhere; non-existence.
My favorite word-weaver (I'm biased and not sorry):
some truly amazing people you should know:
dead poets society, pride & prejudice, wild, into the wild
Favourite TV Shows
a walk in the woods, jane eyre
Tools of the Trade
shaking hands and a growing mind
philanthropy, becoming a tree, trees, and trees. oh, look: trees
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Hey, always rooting for you and forever hoping that as the bird dance with the turning seasons and spinning world, that you find those spaces where you can find true happiness - if even just for moments, that stretch into minutes, that stretch into monuments, that stretch into myths.
Love you so much!! Sometimes when I see the sunset against my cityscape (if a rural town can really be called a city, plus we don’t have skyscrapers), I remember your sunset pictures and think of you, sending all my well-wishes your way.