poem: getting back into things

pop culture re-work through the freeze, the dead years at
pinnacle of our youth. i am too scared to confront feeling – good lit fic
irony, she dies when she wants to live, how boring. songwriting
is a gift I do not have, the days slow down — memories rip and wreck
without warning, virgin birth: vivid grass smell, plastic chair barely
reading war & peace (forever unfinished), anthologies of almost
madness and almost good poetry. reduced to a heart-silver of a person
the whole government apparatus on puppet-strings; taking a break from knowing
(the news) to avoid excessive fear of death. the first insertion was this morning,
doctor’s office with walnut shelves, it is titled slightly but
that is anatomically normal. lyrics like folk-rock, like bedroom-pop hum:
skeleton changed by your hand. i finish brief interviews, i owe a favorite author
to the worst, most made-up internet fling. listening to podcasts on
walks (the fear used to starve me, bring that back!), imagine I am being
interviewed: what was it like, edating? hmm, i felt so beautiful that summer i slid
from skin to skin to perfect-skinned kimono dress, i mattress-curled into faraway
voice and beg the honey/the cries to visit me today.