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

plates, water

is this

existential dread

or lead poisoning

 wired, wired








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

REPEATED:

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 address?



In my notebook, unsent:

Dear X,

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.