my FLEXIBLE is extremely SCHEDULE

by heytherewildflower

You Can’t Live in the Worlds You Save

An Anatomy of the World…
She to whom this world must it self refer,
As suburbs or the microcosm of her,
She, she is dead; she’s dead: when thou know’st this,
Thou know’st how lame a cripple this world is
-John Donne


In JohnDonne-made worlds, we challenge death with him. Death is his
challenge: Death, thou shalt die!, we read. And we dread our exclamation.

The stone punctuation functions as a dare to question.


Explanation Point!,
what, without a lovely death to kill and cling to, will you
do with yourself? What’s your point without the beautiful debt
to fill, or lonely cup to spill from– and quest forth?

Finding oneself, without


We cut each other loose when we are sleeping.
and one morning I woke alone.

Up to a certain point you reclined beside me in fixture,
eyes almost closed. You were always almost. Closed.

And like sickness, I caught myself shot in the dark, shooting eyes
at a baby tyger. The glimpse catching just the slice beneath

a heavy fan of lashes, bright burning scythe of his eye.

I am caught coveting his eye upon my flesh, too much.
I am caught without a cause. I am lost and cut my loss
as it costs nothing, and a pointless explanation.

without you.

That’s all


I catch myself like a sickness. No point explaining.
I was trying to find a poem that wasn’t about love I was trying

to find a song that wasn’t about love I was trying
to find a fantasy that wasn’t about sex I was
trying to find a cat that wasn’t about the house I
was trying to find a cloud without poring over it
for Olympus.

In my dream I was trying to find Ophelia without predecessor,
Penelope, Persephone, predeceasing her. or me.

I was trying to find Hamlet without a hint of death, no question.
I was trying to find mother without beast. I was trying to attend a feast
without blind memories of her breast. and was there feasting before Homer’s
mad lipped song, and what note of his hit first? Try asking questions
with a thick mouth, full of milk.


I tried to write a letter to the future, but the weather recked it.
It was barely legible when it got there. Blotted by rain streaks or green
streaks of my own snotty past trying to become permanent
upon the page I tried to jump off and die.

I tried to find a wilted flower that had never known the full bloom of itself.
I tried to find a rattling flowerhead with a full head of teeth, or a skull
with a mouth full of seeds. I tried to find a full blossom in spring
but summer had already claimed her. I tried to burst into full blossom
all at once, but the wind recked my ambition–
took something,

and cast it like die
into the fall dark air.


Our sleeping spring has flung us
with lots cast on a lost

cat’s meow.
The moan was made by me, but claimed otherwise.

Explanation points to spring,
not to each other.

We belong
with spring

The Chimera, Gustave Moreau