autonomousdesire has written 127 posts for autonomousdesire

Modern Science for the Non-Cartesian Model

The cells split, this decay cracked-atom
cannot yet speak.

Is there narrative in bloodstream? Memories of chromosomes
twisted strand is it spread between
the vastness of constellations? They say
that we are the stuff of stars and we

meet anabolic in curve. This augur
under cold and cumbersome;
endless piles of crumpled receipts.

Cigarette wisp curls
brittle lachrymose—
Between shaking palms begins a heat.

Drawn to hardwood. Concrete. Dirt.
Place open hand and listen to your heart.
At once a beating, and then—

Stars eating themselves.
The catabolic rage of stardust
mouse-toed and freezing
toward a genesis.


Madness is the Only Sensible Way to Love

See the ear and neck, where they meet
at silver vein and glucose traverse. Pluck

the mortifying hairs one by one.

The way her hands stretch to grasp
an icicle; an act of creation.
The reason for comets and planetary accretion disks.

We never read books anymore. Just talk and drink and drink and talk. My laughter is hollow with glimmering bare lakebeds. Babe can you sing me a song? Recite me a tale? Once upon a time there was a long night and before that an even longer day. And there were birds, O! So many birds! Wings lovingly tease, babe. Babe, did you see the feathers fall from their wings?

And after, I scrub a stain from the tablecloth
and treat the napkins with greasy detergent

before unloading the dishwasher.
One day, these maps and journals
will become holy signs. Leading us home.

O Tempora O Mores

The faces were the same
open-iron bars that had seemed a gate
when I was younger.
Spread wide for visitation; unwavering
in their refuge.

When I was younger.

Icy cobblestones, my voice slips
and speaks of something else. Caught
between the rubber and the liquid. Friction
giving way to harm.

At least gravity does all the work from here.

My mother begins talking.
My father averts his eyes; backward palm.

long past comfortable in this ill-fitting skin.

Ruminations/Ruinations I-IV

Rumination/Ruination I

It was a bird. A spot
of crimson.
Plump belly;
brownish hue.

Wanting nothing but to hide
in a hole— terrified;
blinking mauve silver.
Avian morse code.

Chittering chittering chittering!
As she
builds her nest
from my discarded things.
Taking inventory,
the bird says,

“Is essential.”

That worn leather cord from an old necklace. Scraps of ill-fitting shirts. Eyelashes and shed hair. A twenty dollar bill carried away in the wind. Four beads from an old, fractured juzu. Tinsel and bleach. Confidence. Smiles. Love. Books. My books. My pen. My papers.

What it was to be me.

The bird claims
no responsibility.
“You weren’t using them


Rumination/Ruination II

Sometimes the glass falls,
shatters and splinters and you
can but watch and listen
and cry out, after the mess has spread
like a halo
shining about
your filthy feet.

So you sweep sweep sweep.
Until the floor bleeds.
Until you bleed.


Rumination/Ruination III

and “after”
must be
so carefully
kept apart. Lest
they blend,
rendering the whole

The nest
abides. Hangs
by thin, grasping
strands. Balanced
between arms.
close to heart.

Until one day,
with a gust
of eastward
breath, it

Smiles of lost fragments.
A halo of filthy refuse.


Rumination/Ruination IV

Out the gate like a racehorse.
Blood pumping hands clenching breath fleeing.
Just that light touch
sends the heart jumping. Is this

love? sex?

“Oh you can bring the potatoes?”
My mother doesn’t ask,
over the phone.

Met by awkwardly domestic assent.

On the tongue edge of sleep
where do I say
what won’t be said?

Babbling dream-speak what do I say I do?

Does she say my name?
Any name?

Muscles tense.

Heraclitus claims
From the strain of binding opposites comes harmony.

I am uncertain if I believe him.

“I have to scrub the tiles.”


Like Stars or Not Like Stars

There are things the body contains, or that
contain the body        can it be one and the same
or, maybe, the same in difference– deference
to something further out of reach, a cold daybreak
too cold for the summer but it is summer.
There are times when the idea of body is country. Glass
through which we pass our judgement
or a map from which we trace a line
from bone to bone until the entirety
of “us” becomes something territorial. Perhaps
one may deserve a moment to become
a stopped timepiece from the 1890’s; 
heirloom, antique, junk, oneself.
And the bones reach themselves into the map, grasp
with what
this body contains
and move with
what this body is made from: the stuff of stars 
the cartilage of nebula       (closer)           your face
off to the left. Not smiling, not frowning. But furrowed.
But there, I could touch it. There would be bones and body and Autumn.