Exactly from The Body

(Footnotes by Jenny Boully, The Body)

You come at me like the wind. You chap my lips. You leave me gasping. I can lean into you and not fall over. This is not exactly comforting. Exact-o-knife, you. 19 Wither, please. Dissolve into a breeze. An inaudible exhale. There is comfort in this softness. I can get things done inside of it. I can wear lip gloss. I can go about my business. I can find cracks in the pavement. La-di-da. I can watch the woodpeckers peck at indelibly hard surfaces. It takes years to bore through metal with a beak. Or so I’ve heard. But maybe it's worth it. After all, microscopic creatures live everywhere. As in: food is everywhere. It’s not geography, but the governments that dictate otherwise. Why else would they stockpile mounds of corn to ship across oceans? No wind is strong enough to push that freight. These decisions feel too heavy for the likes of us. We’re dusty. We just flutter. That is the goal, at least. To flutter of our own accord. Not that I don't want to take responsibility. I just want to take less. Of everything.

My independence has waned. I look for the gust. I look for you. Is this my fate? You? 20 You mess up my part. I forget my lines. I sit stewing. This is not a successful recipe. For stew or cornbread or even the perfect quesadilla.

I am looking now for a metal shed with lots of glass to let in light. I could glow in there and flutter of my own accord.

Next door could be Jack 21, just down from his busy-body beanstalk. I could listen to his typewriter and imagine the poems. He’d be punching in something about gold, I’m guessing. Or seeds. When in doubt write a poem that contains the word “seeds.” It’s hopeful, at least. And then you can invite the wind. And it won’t have to be exact. It can whisper or burst and the little seeds can dart around like gnats. The sky becomes soil. The birds are grounded. Their beaks pecking and pecking in their prescribed search. It’s not unpleasant. It’s not frantic. No one is breathing down their thin-boned feather necks. Not you, certainly. You leave the birds alone. You leave me alone. I’m here in my metal shack, Jack next door. We’re making things up. It’s working. We’ll be doing this until midnight, at least. Or until the clouds come to make it seem so.


________
19 Cf. Delmore Schwartz:

Disturb me, compel me. It is not true
That “no man is happy,” but that is not
The sense which guides you. If we are
Unfinished (we are, unless hope is a bad dream),
You are exact. You tug my sleeve
Before I speak, with a shadow’s friendship,
And I remember that we who move
Are moved by clouds that darken midnight.

20 Obviously action on a tidbit from Nietzsche: The Danger in Happiness. — “Everything now turns out best for me. I now love every fate: —“who would like to be my fate?” (Apophthegms and Interludes, No. 103).

21 Most likely an allusion to an actual person, as during this phase, it was common practice to place fantastical persons in actual situations or actual persons in fantastical situations.

fine lines?

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_____ fine lines erase them empty your head it's all just the mind just the artistic process nothing clairvoyant. Don't all artists record what they see? Turkey neck inner eybrow sinus pain Are you going to be around? DOOR LATCH FLIP FLOPS You could be more. What will you do to fix that character? Massage the text. tattoo your miscarriage: a lima bean because there are no initials. WORDS. PAGE SCRIBBLES. The in and on through all in white against black, glowing prepositions. Look hard enough and the word will appear. you could work harder and be less attached to your narrative of sorrow. & but and but C U don't want off the train Tie yourself to the ++++++++++ tracks. TICK TOCK
pen marks. If I go back I really like it. It's those lines around the eyes. And you can't do anything about them. Excellent. Heartbroken today. Great dress. STRAIGHTEN YOUR SPINE. I baked a pie forgot good lines from Frances CROSS LEGS UNTILT PELVIS BREATH WAIT WITHOUT WAITING see the words see them coming Get off the train there is a horizon to be had. fried eggs this exit. you're going to see SKIN SAG heavy Look up

a medical condition

something in a jar
in a room full of chemicals
it could have been
a brew of tendrils, tails,
bone-eating acids
i could run my fingers along these jars
quarts of beans, then peaches
sack of stomach resurfacing
handfuls of almonds
eaten into pulp
each announcement a burn mark
to last a long time
etched into metal
salt thin baby
rebuilt

5 senses

HEAR
scratching ink
tecla tecla tecla
keys jingle, dog collars, dog tags
cat power: colors and the kids
words that don't stop
words that start first
anxiety and ideas
something knocking inside
reverberations
a strangling
the stem is being crushed
petals don't know how to unfurl
but jesus this thing wants to come to life
silent singing


TASTE
chocolate chip cookies, too blond
ambition: breeze, sea spray, clean sweat
green tea, smooth jitters
landing, the thread through a needle
words come together
loomed paragraphs
sweetness


SMELL
black fig underarm paste
something called joy:
she told me to put it over my heart,
behind my ears, around my wrists
happy handcuffs
linseed oil in the corners
purple easter eggs, if this sense evokes the past
baby skin: a desired smell,
an amalgam of us on
something yet inconceivable
bitter fig, lodged in the chest
there's just no picking it
I wait for the birds to come and peck


SEE
new yellow walls
envy
honey wood
horizons
blue eyes
streaks in the hair
a floor like a sea, black rubber
white screens with little letters
words words words
women with good ideas and motivation
competent man with wounds
blue merle



TOUCH & FEEL
lines around my eyes: something's coming
a hole in my core, a hollow
cracked heels and callouses
wood floors
the weight of a body upside down
dusty fur
pages of a book, smooth covers
curls
mug handle, silver leaf plunge
longing
oval egg, warm or cool
keys on the pad, buttons
something dripping: hope, change, blood

Fleckles

(a 2 x ? of 6 "blemishes")


Cheek divets
unsightly crumbs?
breakfast smear?
I’ll go
wash it
off my
face I
said with
small voice
nervous and
quivering flaws
slack-jawed
nothing looking
back mirrored
only this
blue eyes
ooooooh my
sea skies
far-away children
covet, crave
privilege packets
shame pools
unrequested doorway
over arching
thick crows
in flight
brooke shields
grandpa kind
pluck not
or become
drag queenish
bird pecked
pock marks
pebble-sized
bikini line
scratch signs
and another
off color
un-announced
third nipple
amidst the
beet juice
splatter stain
of angiomas