Zack Wilson
You see, season three is a great reason to forget all about reason itself–it is the season to seize on to letting reality go, to me fealty is no more unbelievable than any double cream double sugar extra whip macchiato shot–and you can do it all from home, there’s no going, we’re all showing that the buzz is no more than as it does, sure he runs, we all run from once upon a time towards once upon a–its bad I know but what does that show I’m just having uhh, I’m used to distraction retraction and dissatisfaction, much better to be caught in all the action, no divide and faction best stifle your reaction, who knows watching he knows catching through backyard telescopes, there’s periscopes for all, seeing and believing, these mirrors keep deceiving, coping with make-believing, why’s there two moons there but I’ve got three–superstition permeates like sedition, with permission procreates nothing but substrates of great editions of issues, twisting itself, rewinding. Laura Stowell
When I’m not sleeping I am not thinking about the amount the brain shrinks when you don’t drink enough water, and that drinking water too close to going to bed will disrupt sleep but not drinking enough inhibits cell restoration and makes you wake with a headache and a dry, acrid taste in your mouth. When I’m not sleeping I am not considering the various parts of my body that feel too sharp or too soft against the mattress which is neither too firm nor too soft but medium-firm, a “good compromising mattress for couples” that I bought because it was the cheapest one in the store. I am not wondering if my body is deteriorating. I am not dwelling on the inevitability of such deterioration. I am not wondering if my hip bones have become more prominent, or if my ribs stick out more than they used to, or if my jaw is clenched and whether I am able to unclench it or not. When I’m not sleeping I am not reflecting on the alignment of my spine, whether curling up on one’s side contributes to rounded posture, or if my shoulders are compressing my clavicle which would mean I am compressing my lungs which would mean I am not breathing deeply enough which would mean I am not getting enough oxygen which would mean I am killing my brain cells. I am not thinking about how I can’t sleep on my back because the ceiling becomes too close. When I’m not sleeping I am not working through the items unchecked on my to-do list from today, from yesterday, from tomorrow, from last week, from last month. I am not going grocery shopping, I am not putting the clothes on the chair away, I am not reading any of the books stacked on the nightstand, the books stacked on the floor, the books stacked next to the stack on the floor, the books stacked on my desk, the books stacked on my office shelf. I am not organizing said books by color to make them visually pleasing and further avoid actually reading them. When I’m not sleeping I am not answering email. When I’m not sleeping I am not calling people I should call, texting people back, or otherwise communicating with people who care about me who I constantly disappoint. When I’m not sleeping I am not self-correcting my self-criticism. When I’m not sleeping I am not considering kindness. When I’m not sleeping I am not taking valerian, magnesium, melatonin, herbatonin, chamomile, GABA, kava, passion flower, or St. John’s Wort. I am not considering filling the various prescriptions I have been given for xanax (not a palindrome), lunesta (not a play on the latin word for moon), sonata (not a musical composition), or ambien (no -t). I am not thinking about side effects: dependency, memory loss, loss of appetite, nausea, headaches, and neurotoxicity. I am not wondering about dementia. I am not resenting the days I have spent avoiding caffeine, alcohol, and sugar. Days spent meditating and drinking herbal tea, anxiously awaiting therapy appointments for anxiety, stressing about avoiding stress, eating too much or too little, exercising too much or too little. I am not thinking about blue light filters that make everything yellow and flat. I am not remembering repeatedly not reading and not working and not watching things in bed only to do nothing in bed but not sleep. When I’m not sleeping I am not reliving the conversations I had yesterday and eight years ago and how they will resurface in the conversations I have tomorrow. I am not thinking about parallelograms. I am not outlining ceiling patterns with my fingertips on the sheets which are neither too soft nor too rough, too warm nor too cold. I am not touching or being touched. I am not considering how vulnerability is or is not worth it or real. I am not thinking about how difficult it is to forgive (oneself). I am not feeling both too big and too small, too quiet and too loud. I am not drinking tea. When I’m not sleeping I am not worrying about the amount or kind of particles in the air, the air that I am probably not breathing enough of. I am not thinking that chartreuse should refer to a shade of red and not to a shade of green. When I’m not sleeping I am not saying I love you. When I’m not sleeping I am not thinking about not thinking about not sleeping. *In reference/reverence to Anne Boyer’s “Not Writing” in Garments Against Women. Zan Barker-Aderem
Most nights I’m up. It’s been that way for as long as memory has, and memory extends far further for me than for most. When you don’t sleep time winds down to absolute zero, hours fit into each second and each minute becomes an epoch. Geological time isn’t suitable for human experience; you need dreams to break the nights up. Most days I’m down. I never thought I would make it this long, I just figured the depression would have gotten me before now. When you live expecting death you never learn to dream, what’s the point of a potential future when you know there isn’t one coming at all? But without a goal, a vision of better things, the days just stretch on longer and longer. You need dreams to drive you through the hard days. Some times I dream of dreaming but for the most part I am still Dreamless. K. Grey
My nights are not mine. My wrists twist as my mind is sucked into space and my face does not exist except for needles and pins I know I’m alive To resist is fictitious too In fights with frights I say, “Who would want to haunt me? I’m not worth a speck of a spector’s time.” Fritz drew my mind I avoid supine Better a demon on my spine than light in my eyes The thing that most terrifies Is knowing the sun will rise Jack Chelgren
I sit by a window against part of a chair and my body dissolves a pink gape if to speak is to fast then I am feasting dejectedly crookedly leisurely seatedly somewhatly emptily creased Mackenzie Pitcock
It is there in every picture and every window and every mirror, looming over me like a ghost—out of sight but not out of mind. Sometimes, it is in the distance calling out for me ever so softly, these are the times I cherish. Other times it is screaming in my ear, too cute, too lithe, too submissive, too aggressive, too feminine, too boyish too queer, not queer enough. It screams and screams and screams. So I change. I change my clothes, my hair color, anything I can to get the ghost to stop, but it always comes back. Maybe it’s time to stop changing. Kay Grey
When I am not me, I am a real person. How can this be? Well, put simply, I can not be. Don’t worry about it. I’m impossible. When I am not me, I do real things. I walk, I talk, I smile, I make eye contact, I say “Hi, my name is…” I shake your hand. The real me watches. Sits in the back of my skull, curled up cold and little. Sometimes it slips to my rib caged for warmth. Sometimes it drifts above and behind me tethered as an astronaut to its ship drifting, drifting, unfree. Umbilical cord snapping taut, Warning “Hey! Hey! It’s reality!” It’s what I knew, but not what I thought. I’m sorry there is no real real here. What you see is what’s for sale. Skin, bone, muscle, organ shell smiling in the human hell. I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not you. It’s me. Well, not really. Zan Barker-Aderim
Tonight there was a harvest moon hanging over the lake. Its tidal pull drove me closer and closer. luminescence beyond a crescent, A yellow hole in space brimming with celestial glow. Xanthic mascon with Inescapable gravity inviting me and the water to meet. Soaking in moonlight part of me transcended the Earth. My own big-collision event, not fact or theory but somewhere in-between I become only dust, blown through the barrier between the cosmic and the firma. Maybe one day I will accrete, will join the moon in her lonely orbit, So I can pay her back for watching over me during mine. Marah Blake
1. If you ask for its history The Green Monster will tell you it was built that way: Charged to protect the city of Boston from the best of athleticism. A solemn oath from a towering guardian. It will tell you about the first day to the present, How it reached as high as it could to protect the shops on Lansdowne. And we call it a monster. 2. There are several ways to emerge from a slump The most popular being rest, practice, charms and routines. Now When all is lost We know these things can bring it back: Boost those RBIs! Cast shadows over the left field fence! Show the Green Monster who we really are! One player liked to peel a baseball Break its seams Taste its sweaty fruit Spit the strands into the ground. The only way to subdue it (I think) Was to see its make. 3. The answer is there, somehow. Revisit those plays. Mark where your swing is off; Mark the number of blinks. What is being communicated? Something is always being communicated. There is a reason you keep missing. 4. At intake she said You read too many depressing biographies. She was allowed to say this Because it was a joke: No such thing as too many biographies. She reminded me to breathe. There is always a reason. 5. If you sing it enough, Sweet Caroline will sing back to you, And in that duet you will find your momentum. You only have to trust. 6. She reminded me to breathe. So many people (I think) Faint 'cause they forget. Players cascading across the field Their uniforms peppering the earth Until every position is covered What a thing! The batter falling into the catcher Falling into the umpire Falling against the cage. The game called on account of nerves. 7. They slowly built their expectations: To sleep, to talk, to sleep A bit of time in the gymnasium. If I worked hard enough Maybe I'd try again some day? For now A life of practice Because the way through Is through practice For the day I can say "I know this now because I have practiced," Secure in that muscle memory. All I need is time And practice. 8. The Cooperville Institute Baseball Game commenced on an unseasonably warm day in spring. A break from our training: Take the worst of our thoughts and put it to use Work that muscle 'til it works for you. I struck out at first I'm sure I don't think they kept score But I kept working that muscle Made my gray matter soar. I said If I'm here another month, let's start a league. I used to be best at third base. I think I could be again, with practice. 9. If you ask the Green Monster about its greatest fear It won't say, Home runs It will say, Their loathing. What a thing: To be cursed from the start. To be muttered and blamed. Thy name spit Until a winning streak. What a thing! (I cried) What a thing, Looka that swing! What a thing! What a thing! What a thing! |
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