good trouble
absence tricks me into thinking I don’t know my name
I don’t know yours either
it tricks me out of thinking
let’s imagine forms of knowing yet belittled and ripe
let’s imagine ways of being that transform weight and add necessary density,
alleviate and create dignity
let’s imagine it is unspoken and lives between window tips
and streams in through summer thighs
and curls into the crevices of our hands
resting
spitting
divining
twisting
my eyes are slant because it is a good trouble
a good trouble
conspiring
it feels more narrow than it ought
and shifting under my gaze
much like a particle that cannot be located in the precise moment of witnessing
how do we stabilize a presence determined to be disturbed by gaze
xo
poet’s booty
I hear something like this:
we were good trouble. did Pluto send you?
Pluto doesn’t want me to be the same, and I am not.
I am good trouble.
This I have always been. Essential, barreling in pathways that lead towards breath and eyes darting like constellations of significance, narrowing on so many details that amount to aliveness and whim, if whim was known for the way the vegetation whispers and wishes good fortune, slimy greens grunting devotions, fae-like charm, not dripped in fine print, punishing and devastating . . . fae-like as in we are eternal youth with known deviations that light fires in undulations that know the pelvic bowl and know berries and know more of literature than any book.
Pluto is destroying and unleashing faith.
Dwarfing my self-heretic nature such that I become truly heretic, truly holy, truly honoring.
In essence, I must bow to the disjointed and absent and the void swallowing me whole. I must pray to the misery and mayhem, the disorientation declaring purge. Is there perjury here? What truth is bending?
as someone that shifts and sees future, adjusts and strategizes for achievement upon hearing small cues . . . there was no oath.
I must remember how detachment has been my crutch.
What is right distance with fire?
xo xo xo
poet’s booty