free verse | abikat

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Undefinable

words are great

when describing

things that you

know how to

but fail when

for example

a love is so

simple that

pleasure is

undefinable

Summer Mirror

In a much - altered state

Compared to those before

Indulgent in these dances

Across the kitchen floor

Today I'm desperate only

For the attention of my own

With every little muscle arch

Each sharp angle of my bones

Pulling faces like a specter

At mirror's fleeting peeks

How time hardens layers

Yet makes my insides weak

What parts, divine creation

And which have I built upon?

Beads of sweat go rolling

At summer's final dawns

Cohabitate

we are collectively the universe

experience itself, pondering why

we took on these forms without

a say in the matter, how such

beauty and filth can cohabitate,

and what to do with our finite hours

Aquarius

you have been crawling out

for what feels like an eternity

conscious but not unscathed

an earthen pit of conditioning

where you were trained to dilute

your cosmic chemical makeup

neglect your combustable kindling

and play palatable to survive

but infinity stretches ahead

as far as it has behind you

Monday

We were both stoned -

maybe I was more than you,

because you’re a total pro -

and we were both traumatized,

caught up in a fit of laughter,

brought us both to our knees,

scraping warm spring pavement,

whisper-howling into the night.

I’m so glad you’d been there,

but so sorry that you had to be.

I don’t usually go to these parties.

Three winks and we’ll leave!

But you didn’t see my S.O.S.,

cornered by a couple of sloshed

strangers with heavy baggage 'til

we found ourselves carrying it out.

My house was less than

half a mile down the street.

But it took me hours to settle,

Oscillating - anger, delight. Then

I decided to only do what I want now,

and I realized in horror that I’m free.

Laughing and crying: such

similar feelings of relief.

Animal

How can I be quiet or still?

I am writhing with joy and with rage.

My jaw is taut as a grand piano string,

tongue and teeth serrated daggers.

My arms shall grow plumes of feathers

any moment and take me to flight.

How can I be quiet or still?

My stardust siblings are in pain.

The antidotes to their ails have

all but been discovered, yet

they lie behind a locked paywall

no one is supposed to know about.

How can I be quiet or still?

You want me to just be grateful.

You want me docile and complacent.

But I'm an overstimulated animal,

with two rocks to rub together,

eager as fuck to burn this all down.

Animal Body

My animal body has spoken.

Rather, I have chosen to understand.

It slumbers and nests in the winter.

It was meant to lie quietly and listen

for messages creeping through the frost.

It curls up and embraces the dark,

mourning the vivid deaths of autumn.

May the turn of the wheel bring dancing,

and the hunt for arousing revelation.

But let the earth nourish me know,

my animal body has spoken.

Quarantine

I now find that I,

an unexpected hermit,

a restless friend unrequite,

fantasize right around midnight

of a breathy, sweaty, drunken hug

and a ravaged communal meal,

secrets leaping off tongues,

riots of laughter and song,

and kisses 'til tomorrow.

Time crawls so slow

then flashes by.

Three Serious Adults

Last night, three serious adults

danced to pop songs in my living room.

Down half a bottle of James,

throats tingling, senses awakened,

we agreed on three truths among us:

existence on earth is much too fleeting,

our spirits are much too free, and

our bodies that hold them much too curious.

And on the back porch,

we announced these truths

to the January air

and the nocturnals inhabiting,

Like Old Dickey, in his

Strength of Fields plea,

we each sighed, "Lord,

let me shake with purpose."

And what began shortly thereafter,

in the soft, carpeted listening room,

as shy shoulder sways and toe taps,

evolved rapidly into a mad dancing trinity;

a twirling, twisting triangle;

an outright pissed promenade.

Both united and unique in our movements,

we each performed in this rite for an

audience of one another,

and three insects who’d heard the ruckus

accepting the most ridiculous

twitch and rattle

as a work of divine art,

from the Lord herself.

Then back out to the cold for us,

once our work was done,

to say our goodnights,

like three serious adults.

New Garden

Little Grey Bunny, friendly but vigilant,

keeps one obsidian marble eye on me

as she bites off, and slowly chews

the tops of Dutch clover like cake pops.

Lone Love Bird - no bigger than an egg -

fills his tiny little chest with spring air,

opens his needle beak, and sings loudly to her,

a confident tenor - from a dogwood branch

(a little off key but with a whole lot of heart).

Bumblebee Twins bump to their own rhythms -

side to side, flower to flower, nectar to nectar -

buzzing about a pollen-dusted bustling city.

Weather-worn Mother Mary, stone hands open,

towers over the rest warmly, keeping watch -

silent, accepting - embodying the Wu Wei.

I sit in tired lotus on a cracked steppingstone,

mended over time by chickweed and broadleaf -

almost as still as the saint, in humble adoration.

An attempt to let everyone here know that I -

a weary and lonely newcomer - come in peace,

and maybe, one day, we could all be friends.

Allegience

to the white skinned,

to those who look like me,

asking "them" where "their"

kneeling football star is now -

the black man who ruined

their Sunday evening comforts -

who uses kneeling

to fight for justice? and

who uses kneeling

for black murder?

you pledge your allegiance

to a system built with

the blood of black and brown,

a system that allows you and me to

enjoy our Sunday evening comforts

without being shot by the cops.

Winter Solstice

We are each as much animal

As the ones which scurry ahead

Before the creeping darkness

Reaches the forest's crisp edge.

So if on this winter's solstice

Your hairs raise like tiny feathers

To air filled with premonitions,

May it nudge a gentle reminder

That your body has kept score -

And not to ignore your intuition.

Even You

It is not alarmist or radical

to make comparisons between us today

and pre-Kristallnacht Germany

Those of identity privilege were

slowly fed anti-other rhetoric

and propaganda like buttered frogs

in a slow boil. That uncanny feeling

you have deep in your gut is called

shame. It will follow you as each

othered person in your life has

their rights to humanity stripped,

until the ruin rises to meet even

you, at the top of the chain.

Underground

My soul is unsettled.

I don't know how to be.

Made of powdered cannons

And soft biodegradable things.

Loose like a jazz bassist,

Tighter than sweaty strings.

Made undead by moonlight,

Underground with our revelries.

Pantomime human beings

over coffees in the morning.

Pickled Peppers

This, here. is the color

I see when I eat my toast.

When I reheat my coffee.

This is the color of

forgiving myself for

always overthinking.

For always feeling so

excited but also so pissy.

Of wanting to be patient

though time is so fleeting.

It's the color of trying to

be a better listener by

having conversations

with ghosts in the morning.

This, here, color I painted

while I practiced yodeling.

It's the color of singing

pretty and singing ugly.

This, here is the color

of hunger and satiety.

Yesterday

Yesterday I wrestled

with the type of meat I wanted on my sandwich,

while Yemen's children died of cholera;

mothers saved their last crumb.

Yesterday I worried

about my reputation and the look of my hair

while Mexico pulled dead relatives from rubble;

The Caribbean awaited drinkable water.

Yesterday I continued

to benefit from white skin, lucky birth,

as Rohingya were scrubbed out of Myanmar;

as another black American clenched his jaw,

dug his nails into a steering wheel.

Save the Babies

Save the babies.

But only the fetuses.

Not the ones that breathe,

and have goals and dreams.

Not the ones with melanin.

Not the ones without formula.

Not the ones who find themselves

on our side of the Mexican border.

Not the ones drinking radioactive water,

or whose gender is other than birth assigned.

Not the ones who get between a man and his gun,

or his tech company earnings, or his oil pipeline.

Save the womxn and childrxn. For they shall inherit

the barren wasteland of ash and blood we leave behind.

A Disturbance

I disturbed a little bird's peace,

when I sat at the carport table

to read a few lines before dark.

She may have been on a stroll home,

to the tiny nest above the lantern by the door.

Now she sits, on an eye-level branch,

chirping politely from a distance,

as I am now between her and home,

and for all she knows, her mortal enemy.

I regret never studying the local wildlife,

because now I’m in her way and

I have no idea what kind of bird she is.

Does that make me an asshole?

A brave attempt or two has been made

to jump into the air toward danger,

brisk swoops shaped like planet rings,

but she ultimately returns to her perch,

patiently waiting, the prettiest soprano

in the trees...oaks maybe? Also no idea.

I wonder if I should continue reading, but

knowing full well I gave that up shortly

after finding a quiet moment, just in time

to let my mind run wild with assumptions.

Time Fly

A red-eyed fly

no bigger than

a sunflower seed

shares my bench seat,

rubbing her dainty hands

together to clean off the day.

reminding me to do the same.

Her job is to eat decay and live

for around 15 to 21 days.

Mine is to live in such

a way that celebrates

our coexistence

and connection

to the dust.

Everything But a Cigarette

On a night such as this

we gathered ‘round a fifth

in a place we weren't s'posed;

stretched out, reminisced,

beat our fists, then each thought,

I need a cigarette.

In the halls hung with pieces

of finger-painted cheeses

and prints of our lord Jesus,

we ran.

In a room with no promise,

searched we, with ol’ Thomas,

as the potion came upon us,

and found,

much of what'll make

art with just a shake,

of a glittery earthquake,

but no cigarette.

We found toothpicks, a shoe,

fourteen bottles of glue,

some old doodles that we drew,

but no cigarette.

We found a book of German words,

cow etchings by the herd,

some graffiti flipping the bird,

but no cigarette.

Then lo, down the hall,

when we thought we’d seen it all,

against a dimly lit wall,

sat our cigarette.

So danced we, down see her.

But as we all inched near,

the truth became too clear:

‘twas a sculpture of a cigarette.

So thought we, on the crawl back

between the walls of cork and tacks,

to rest our weary backs,

Who needs a cigarette?

And as we met each other's eye,

one by one began to cry.

But they were tears of pure delight.

For we had everything.

(But a cigarette.)

Particles

I've thought a lot lately

About being made of stardust

Mysterious particles of matter

Making my worries seem paltry

But my urgency to live, fervent

And that is the great paradox

As I fret generously about time

And space and running out of it

New Garden

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Allegience

A Disturbance

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Time Fly

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Everything But a Cigarette