A few months ago I wrote and put together my first poetry chapbook. I sent the manuscript off and 9 hours later it was picked up for publication.
It is called “Everyone In Your Dream Is You” and is available for purchase online! (Or, for those of you in Toronto, you can grab a copy from Knife Fork Book in Kensington Market. Although I don’t think they have copies yet. I don’t even have copies yet.)
I’ll be doing a reading on March 9th. I have until March 9th to practice how to say words right. I no talk good when scared.
ANyway. Wow. FEels good to finally share that with you! Thank you for all the support you’ve given me along the way. U my day 1s. I have to go write an essay now it’s due tmrw. Ttyl ❤
Old poem. Written after my wisdom teeth surgery. Ha ha.
And when what I say is met by incomprehension, and most of what I say is, my spirit dies. Over and over again it dies, and I smile and I sigh and I shrug, and when I am on the night bus going home the blue light sinks into my skin and the stench of my own decay stings my eyes. Because there is no one to match my strange. Because you read my diary and you say, “this is a story about magic realism.” Because I get along fine with everyone because I’m a Gemini and we hide the parts of ourselves that are incompatible and we have two heads and one laughs while the other cries. Because I don’t believe in astrology but I slept with an agate under my pillow. And I dreamt a way out but I have forgotten it. I have forgotten what I meant to say when I said:
my sweetheart is the leaf-dust in my shoe,
with every step \grinding/ the road
fresh with tar, I’ll leave the bottoms of
my feet, marked
we both know trees are lighter
without their leaves
my hair auburn I follow
embers of the sun, leave my
body, white bark, cracking
beneath the clear blue sky
this year I’m flying too
the person I love most in the world stands in front of me and I think to shake their hand and I think this is my only chance and I hold out my hand to the one I love and my hand is full of rocks and I stand there with my arm out and my hand is full of rocks and I think to shake their hand I think my only chance my hands are full of rocks the one I love the most has gone away my hand is full of rocks
Quiet: there is no one here but me.
The professor is commenting on a Bishop poem. He talks about dreams and what it means to enter the spiritual realm. A man transforms into a dolphin – who is already him – his hair smells like the lake. The rain has stopped but it will begin again. Students are graduating in a white tent on the field. A beeping outside: even that, peaceful. I follow The Path and it leads me home. (Still here, in class.) My glasses are half dark. Should I be taking notes? I watch the ceremony from my mind. The graduates walk up a staircase and disappear into the lake.
“It’s weird how easily you can be replaced.”
The whole class makes one cento.
—June 15, 2017
I can’t walk bare feet in the junkyard because all the metal will cut me and then I’ll have to worry about infections – it’s never the initial cause that kills you always the infection – at least from what my mom tells me, she’s a doctor. All I do in the junkyard is kick around so I definitely would get cut if I was bare foot. I stepped on glass once. Or it was my cousin who stepped on glass and I watched as she stood there with her heel lifted, her blood already pooling on the gravel. Stepping on different textures is supposed to stimulate your brain. There is this park with a special path made out of smooth stones just for stepping. I never finished the path because my feet always hurt after a few steps. My mom says my skin is still too soft. Freud says the skin is the bodily ego. They are both doctors. And I think that’s really funny the thing with doctors and skin because I’m in a hospital bed right now surrounded by doctors and none of them are telling me to put on my shoes and I’m beginning to wish they would because my feet are getting cold. My feet are getting so cold.