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Cat Over Clock

Poetry Saves the World

Lost Pens

I like New Mexican dreams,
thirty years ago i was a child
running there.
Twenty years ago I was wild
running on a Florida beach,
but I could see the veil
both times
and it got thinner
as the years went on
breathing was easier than seeing
yet time and again I forgot
about it completely.
Ten years ago I ran
off a cliff in Arizona.
Now I ride a bus in Oregon,
close my eyes and find sunshine
soaked in fog.

1600

Written November 9th, 2016

I ate my whole tongue today
sitting at the front desk
I cried everyone cried
we privately gave ourselves
the count, the spread.
Many poets have died because
of politics in the past.
Many have starved to death
in cold prisons.
Their words were angular
they built truth out of
rotten apples, sinking to the tin bottoms
of barrels with no sound,
the sudden plummet from coming
to reason that you’ll rot
with your stem still attached,
that no one will chew your
flesh. That worms even
whisper “I won’t eat your apples”
Pulling out the lens, a
breath of fog can cover
the landscape.
I am tired and weep.
Poets fill my mind with
somber whispers of better crops.
Those not poisoned by
hiccups that never go away.

“And the land of the free” she croaks.
“In the home of the
brave.” she can’t even
make a sound.
Now the best part of
me is shiny.
I make noise with my
words and hide myself
from everyone.
I cry and scream but
no one hears, because everyone
cries and screams.
I remember Rise Up.
Can we all remember at once?
Blood runs cold, a
stake to the heart is
not for Buffy’s world—its
crept into ours. We felt
ourselves digesting our stomachs
in the dungeons.
It’s 1600s.
It’s 1700s.
We’ve lost the footing
on the 21st
century and burned
the orchards one and all.

Forcibly Fed (for Djuna Barnes)

Written November 9th, 2016

We have eaten the truth
for what it is worth
Djuna Barnes being forcibly
fed. How can I calm her
now? she looks in on how
far we’ve gotten— I think
of the charcoal pumped cold
into my stomach and she doesn’t
rest until she’s helped us all.
I call her Madame Barnes
for the purpose of this poem.
(wrought with the deprivation
of Madame President) it’s a side
note. I am a side-note.
There’s nothing but everything
ancient and achy
about the moment
I am
a woman today.
It’s madness. I vote she votes
he votes
and we see. We see
women in the light
and the stillness of sun—fighting
to be the goddesses we once
were, with nations beneath
us and giving to Hera just
to be well and knowing that the
earth shook because she
walked. And damn the man,
because the times
have let hundreds of years pass
without exactly knowing
what flipped the switch.
Keep your knees together,
Brandy,
you’re on pelvic restrictions.
I cherish the hearts of
the warriors around me,
we go forth with pens
and make that heart hit
the page with the
force of eager love, heart
break, the ability to
have every day as ours.
In solidarity,
women today
women tomorrow

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