a thing you have lost, a
part of yourself
once had, now
among the inscrutable white of
pages, notes, memories
forgotten, though nearly captured, only
surrounded by interminable
whatever you do, don’t forget:
I can wrap my jaw
spazzed-out little neck.
I am Kaiya the crazy koo of
come to git
all up in your shit.
one of us is always feet on the
ground, the other unbound
by time and space, or by
rational thought, non-tractional, caught
between what is and what could never be
the times we whisper, or sing to the
stars, in the back seat of cars
gliding, abiding, above
the earth, flying
refusing to lose the feeling, undying
you can check the transcript—
you can roll back the tape—
we have never danced, only flew
or fought, with no time to
stop, ready to
chase, to face
the deathless answer now
since you’ve been in my life
there’s been a lot of
man, and you are
one lucky motherfucker
the way I conduct a forced chest
sit, endorse a compressed
nose-in-armpit, source a
bare ankle tongue
I am the aortic leak
I am the warm couch boa
I am the slipped disc footnote
I am the bloody-poop asterisk
I am the open-pupiled groundhog aftertaste
I am the sweat-dream court date
I am the one-track tennis ball chase
I am the trashcan tissue-hunter messmate
we are nothing save for who we are, and
who we find ourselves to be
there is not a magic
if there is not at
once a tragic
and a thing is only temporary
because it is not
This past weekend was full of dem readings.
First off, on Saturday, the THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION tour (Rothko and I) loaded the BIG SIGN into the truck and drove to Philadelphia.
This is a book party for THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION.
I’ve always considered the process of writing to be mostly a solitary creative endeavor. And, if I’m being honest, that’s one of the things that has always made it appealing to me: the idea that a particular piece—an essay, a poem, a beer “pros and cons” list, a love letter to Emma Stone—can be my vision, and mine alone, from start to finish. There are, of course, other art forms like that, too. Photography, another thing I do a fair amount of, is sometimes that way, at least the type of photography I do. There are some other forms of photography which are more about collaboration and teamwork. But man, I tend to shy away from those forms. Fashion shoots. Working with human models. Christ. That seems stressful. I much prefer dogs. Or if I’m feeling particularly antisocial or misanthropic, just give me some inanimate objects and a good fixed focal-length lens.
But here’s a surprising thing I’ve learned in making my first book. Here is a confession, if you like, about making This Is Not a Confession…
My book, This is Not A Confession, published by Awst Press will drop in a little over fourteen weeks. April 22rd, to be exact. And as we get closer to that date, I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Okay, I don’t really want to tell you this. (And my publisher probably doesn’t want me to tell you this, either.) But here it is, anyway: You may not want to recommend my book to your easily-offended Aunt Marsha, your church pastor, or anybody else who you deem sensitive to graphic sexual content.
I am not exaggerating when I say that I have taken tens of thousands of photographs of Honey. As I go back through them, I am struck with a sadness. I thought it was a sadness of remembering. But I also felt like that didn’t seem right somehow. It didn’t explain why I didn’t necessarily want to look at those photos, yet. It seemed more complicated than that.
Here’s why: It wasn’t a sadness of remembering. It was a sadness of forgetting.
All these photographs I’ve taken of Honey have been to “preserve” something. A spirit. A feeling. And the sad, terrible — indeed “treacherous” — thing is that as I go about looking at these artifacts, they feel like they’re having the reverse effect. Instead of bringing those feelings back to me, I feel like they’re moving them further away. Instead of recreating those memories for me, I feel like they’re destroying them.