can't look – look,

can’t look – look,
by meghan tennison
the calendar makes me bite on my burns
that have no creator, says my memory,
and the more i ignore time,
the less i do with myself
besides walk
away from people talking about things
that they don’t even care about
“how do you think they feel
when you make those sorts of
i could tell you something brilliant
as if i think things through, as if you deserve that much from me,
but i haven’t gone that far,
and all i really wanna say is
i don’t care at all
so let me absorb whatever
reddish blame blot goo
that i can marvel and poke at when thrown/flown/flowing.
(i know someone’s been blaming me for
something much more dark and ruined
and i know they dress up just to ask me things
even though
i’ve told them
Everything –
[i was never quiet
to begin with]
stranger, lover, friend, lover
turned into paper air
you linger, scratch, try to ignore the busy me,
and only pass through my face
while i sleep
(i dreamt of that one place again
that i made up years ago
with the sky-tall trees and the treewater –
you had four different bodies
and wouldn’t look back into my eyes)
i notice
because my lungs start forcing themselves
to jump with a heavy breath
and fall back down
too fast – “now you have to do the rest”
you’re so flattened-out it dries my throat
and i can’t think through your thin noise anymore
screaming quietly-pathetically enough to
inch out burdens
from my self-grounded eyes
i wish you could accept that i have no time for
what’s too hard to understand
something evil’s going to happen soon
where i’ll have to face the Reality
that i can’t love everyone i want to
which’ll only
grow some sort of monster jealousy organ in my belly
so that whenever i look at others
stuck in the past or not
i have to
delete what i say
i tore my nails off
so unevenly
trying to make them look better
you’ve got to see it
my index finger bled
like a melting kool-aid popsicle
you’ve got to taste this
it’s so red

0 thoughts on “can't look – look,

  1. Can read- read, …it’s been a while since i’ve read a nice long 1st person confessional (with maybe a pinch of paprika escapism?)…but who wouldn’t want to hall-ass from all the superficiality in the world today [and the ways it’s not supposed to be]? Poem seems to flow like Nuyorican slam, and: “Hello Brooklyn, my name is Mos Def..are you ready for some poetry mutherfuckers?” The length delves deeper into topic and acts as catharsis of personal anxiety/opening statement in indictment of world.
    Appreciated breaks in written poem and length of lines variances. Meghan, thanks for sharing something so personal.
    My fav. parts was: “so let me absorb whatever /reddish blame blot goo /that i can marvel and poke at when
    thrown/flown/flowing.” …and of course ending with the finger bleed and popsicle.

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