the destroyer > Jessie Janeshek
I’m ready for nothing
shell comb and clear flower beach bag
and finally getting the joke of jazz suicide
acacia turns the Casiotone’s star effect
I just let every day slash me by.
I won’t tell you the secret of rock bottom blues
but there’s truth to putting on make-up
thick lashes in the triptych mirror.
Sometimes I’m active
sometimes I just take pills to sleep
jettison the waders jettison the creek.
The cat sits like a sphinx
doesn’t feel the mosquitoes land
the deer eat the clover.
Forgive my pinecone salad
in the plastic bucket
cupcakes heavy lifting.
I put the berries in my mouth
because I couldn’t keep the peace with Benzedrine.
My neighbor says he wants summer
my hair smells like citronella
I can’t meditate well
or do anything deliberately.
Look at my baby and when I say baby
I mean my 40-year-old arpeggiator.
Then, lower, look at my sun lover T-shirt
that September at the beach
my bleached hair snapped off at my neck
and we just went with it.
You don’t have to own desperation
womankind and/or the sand grains
burning the incense
crawling across the floor like a priest.
In the Almanac for Moderns two little tips for survival
acoustic in the evergreen electric in the snow.
After all this year is nothing.
Singing every day may have worked for Buddy Holly
and/or for Carole Lombard when she climbed on that plane
and/or Joan Crawford
and I’ve got a house in hell bedsit in Nashville
a pickguard that dark glitters
frankincense and a skeleton horsehead
and/or being friends with a dead girl
is an exercise in flexibility.
I can see why the best addicts take it day-by-day.
Mari Lywd invented my cocoon.
I won’t let you play in it
my Xmas star canopy my breasts/fuzzy gains
the incense smoke seems like a real life ghost
and after all this year was impossible.
You can buy 20 bras
two quartz guitars
and a pair of pink socks
and watch your life not get any better.
Every morning I wake feeling wary
take one more pill
sleep, a fake antibody.
Every afternoon frosty gloss and I miss New Mexico.
I wish I could be the woman
who thrived on control
who said I don’t like a train
that hurtles through darkness
because it puts my fate in your hands
but I can’t turn my blues on and off.
Tragedy revolved into memory
with the aid of some Nembutal.
The future proclaimed I’d be dead at Red Lake
but my curls looked so good at the cusp.
I wanted to learn how to operate mentally
close to the river switch license plates.
I tried to slow burn let red hustle go down
but now baby’s here
a lemon-flavored cult movie
haunting these woods and our wounds in her clownsuit.
Inherent disaster attenuates ache
my last truth’s blue body so small.
I take your inner-eye bleed
your yawn diocese
your two rotten teeth.
I laugh in slow motion at my raw occult
leaving your dolly to drown.