from Myself the Photograph (pt. 2)
numinous like a cloud,
like the flat matte painting of the sky,
oh god, i lack
the vision to see deeper.
BANG, BANG, BANG.
my star & left arm
this desolate, irradiated planet
the green glow
folded into cake batter
houses & chairs, kitchen crumbs
or lead poisoning
You read Jill Magi, Bhanu Kapil, like visionary literature. Like something hermetic, harnessing weird psychic energy. The work of ghosts. Emily Dickinson. OKAY BUT I DON’T BELIEVE IN ANYTHING! I AM IN A CAVE IN THE DESERT, RENDING MY CLOTHES!
In my notebook is written in a descending column:
somatic → visible soul → insubstantial
essence mirroring the haunted body → contaminated by art → radical embodiment, hyper-corporeal→ DOG DIRT
EAT THE DIRT.
In my notebook, reeking:
I am desperate to be like you. I have
your photograph taped inside my dictionary. Do you have a favorite book? What
color is your pen? How do I receive a prism on my head? Are you pleased to read
my note? Wait— I haven’t sent it yet. Where’s my book? May I please have your
In my notebook, unsent:
Scorpions are leaking out of my blood. They are eating me alive.
I am chained to the radiator.
m. forajter is a MFA graduate from Columbia College Chicago. Her work has been published in several magazines, including Tarpaulin Sky, Court Green, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Luna Luna, Petra and Witch Craft Magazine. Her chapbooks, WHITE DEER and Marmalade Girl, are available from dancing girl press. She really likes Nirvana, werewolves, and medieval art.
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