Monday, August 27, 2012

NEW! Poem by Amish Trivedi

Amish Trivedi


If we have a plan, it’s 
unbecoming: we could

do nothing and let things 
happen to us, but that

just isn’t how we roll. Places 
we fly over have cities

and culture and cracked 
sidewalks too. Lines

that form the right side 
of your face want to

take me away. Each inch 
is covered in

creases and I think
the room wants to sleep

with you. My relationship 
to my body

has changed and we’re
here to discuss exchanging

faces and making arbitrary 
lines and separating

families with borders. This is 
my story of the generations

and how they collapsed 
and came back stronger

than ever. My version 
carries with it a stigma

and an American flag 
traced on your

body from the legs
to your collarbones. I

know tattoos which create 
the most pain, and I

want you to become 
them: a graft of old

skin, inked, and 
replaced; remnants

of a letter 
never sent; and

covered marks 
exposed. Where our

organs begin is a 
story to be told

in flightless language, 
grounded and

menstruated. They 
expect us to come

running when lights 
burn brightly or

ends of words turn 
in meaningless

symbols and repercussions 
of other faults. We push

to know how, but 
only when connected

in series does darkness 
get purged and then

an open fear is held. With 
teeth marks drawing blood,

only lust can penetrate 
doubt. I know places

that force your head back 
and words that

make you sing, but 
unfortunately, wind

has come in and 
gotten us lost. I’ve got

the whole thing down 
to numbers, but a chart

would be helpful. Figures 
one through nine

could lead us into 
the right species but

my orientation is spread
and bursting. I can meet you

where you tell me, but I 
don’t know the way there

by divine causality. Dismemberment 
is not the side-effect

of any drug I am
aware of, though a response

to an externality
it may be. I have learned

to think in one hundred 
word bursts and

keep myself to one 
thousand and eight words

per day to keep from 
repeating sounds and phrases

I know. I don’t know if 
you’re a boy or a girl, or

sometimes nothing
at all, but any pointing

could be helpful. As long 
as I can hear you

to know where you are, I 
am happy, though

I’d prefer to see 
or taste. I know I

should have kissed you 
but did you have to

tell me that when you 
were putting your

break up speech 
together? Every day

has grown from that spot 
in my lungs and I

cannot suture new 
feelings together or

tell them which way to spread 
because I’m just as nowhere

to be found. Wanting 
to believe each thrust

will be the last, we 
speak only in words

which cannot be seen. I’ll 
leave you part of my nails

in my will, though I 
plan to use them

to scratch my way 
out. I will crawl

in to find where you 
go, but I know I

can come back whenever 
I want. As your

breath is caught
in my mouth, another

desire washes back 
over my central

arteries: to feel 
unwanted and

forgotten primes 
my blood for

exaltation. My next 
performance will be

“The Abstract,” a 
novel in seventeen

words, but on 
nine hundred and

fourteen pages. I want to 
pull my legs up

to my heart and 
burn them

all at once. We could
require immediate infiltration

if our arms were to 
end up behind us

in a fire or a 
mélange of different

noises. If lies go 
too deep, we can

consume them and 
make them a part

of our lineage. I have 
a lingering desire

to be placed on a 

bullet but to force it 
back into stasis is a

trouble worth waking 
up to. I cannot complete

my own words 
without seeing

which you want to 
use first, a decision

taken too hard to 
remain uncaring

about. I don’t 
want to steal your

lips, just lease them 
for my revolution, as

private as it 
might be. When

I press my flesh to yours, 
I hear tiny music escaping

and ceasing to form 
notes, much less a

sonic argument. These are 
supplemental words to a

love poem that was written 
in a bloody bathtub over-

looking language as a 
device: how could I

be the last to know? For those 
who look to the sky

hoping for a better figment 
of this imagined prophylaxis,

I want to hand you my 
non-vital organs in the

hopes you’ll find some new 
destruction for them. As my

anemia leads me, so does my 
bile. I want to discover

a reverberation to sink into and 
become part of its silicate. I

refuse to accept that this is

the last memorized passage that will 
make its way into our canon, but

only rejected vowel sounds 
will please our ears, wherever

we might find them.

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