#clam #crab #cockle #cowrie

that means No where i come from. i am cold, out waiting for the day to come. i chew my lips and i scratch my nose — feels so good to be a rose. oh don’t you lift me up like i’m that shy, no no no just give it up. there are bats all dissolving in a row into the wishy-washy dark that cannot let go.

and i cannot let go, and so i thank the lord and i thank his sword, though it be mincing up the morning slightly bored. oh morning without warning like a hole — and i watch you go.

there are some mornings when the sky looks like road. there are some dragons who were built to have and hold. and some machines are dropped from great heights lovingly. and some great bellies ache with many bumblebees. and they sting so terribly.

i do as i please, and now i’m on my knees: your skin is something that i stir into my tea. and i am watching you, and you are starry, starry, starry. and i’m tumbling down and i check a frown. that’s why i love this town, just look around: to see me serenaded hourly and celebrated sourly and dedicated dourly, waltzing with the open sea — clam. crab. cockle. cowrie. oh will you just look at me.

- joanna

Day 6: Vesper Martini

Six plaid gloryholes. The last time I tasted caffeine. The last time I tasted you. How I can’t smell anything without smelling the corporate musk that masks our humanity.

Give the senators their marrow. Give the heartaching their vestigials. Give Bacchus his girdle. Gigawatt Hours. Plastic Porters. Barn Storming Jerks.

Day 5: Loving Subtweets

The idea of doing this every day is tripping me out. I don’t feel like committing to a thing. Not really sure what the big deal is. It’s not like I’m getting married. Right? You can’t believe two scepters dancing on the edge of a twilight firestorm, anyway. Love.

Day 4: “They shoot horses, don’t they.”

Bourbon or whimsy.

Not a theme I could write about easily. These aren’t my wheelhouses.

What are my wheelhouses?

Detox. Cold Turkey. Systems. Theories. Being broken-bodied.

In the end we are all dressage horses. Except for dressage horses. They’re something rarefied by metaphor. Shot, glue, diseased, old age. In the end we are all factory goods on the way to the furnace. This is why cremation feels most appropriate to me — I was worthless in life. Do not confer worth upon my husk in death.

Whoever you are: I want you to embarrass me in public. I want you to take me home and put me in positions that make me feel like half a human being, and I want you to make me cry. I want you to slap me in the face and tell me I’m a shit.

I’m a worm. Love me like one.

Day 3: I guess we’re really doing this.

Couldn’t believe the thrum of a wound underwater. Pulsing away and the blood dissipating in a red cloud. The vein kathrump-ing. 

The idea is to let the pain manifest and be born and live its whole energetic life inside of you, and then accept it and listen to it break harmlessly on the shores inside your head.

Don’t worry about the water. Pain can’t boil water.

And love can’t dissuade the world from being painful. That’s its nature.

Sit on the porch and spit fire.