navel label cinqø

navel (final) label #5

Meet me underwater, where all distractions die
The fish cannot be told what to do

When I was green I felt like an imposter
I felt older then, when I was younger I felt much older

I opened it for you too many times
the door. Because I was older but so much younger
in my ways. I made careless decisions as I
got younger

I wore blue jeans

Today is a lot different. I am running longer and longer
distances on my own along the river
for the first time in my life

I don’t know why
but I like it

Yesterday is forgotten though I won’t forget you
What were we doing? the nickel bags turned into quarter ounces
and rolled into dimes

You begin to appreciate arithmetic

the nineties changed me
more than any other decade
i think

and then i met you
you were one of the first to love
me changed

you in your descent
like a base jumper
over the rails
waving goodbye
in a wingsuit

throwing away everything
for a thrill

People get bounced like checks
before we fall. I wish you could
meet me underwater

where distractions die
social media cannot breathe

i am training my body like my mind
nobody told me how

i like to live by my spirit
and its longings

I am somebody no one else can be for you
you were somebody
to me nobody else
could be

a singular moving object
in a forest (of trees)
a label. without a navel

the only stillness
in a forest
(the trees)

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Substrata

I support you, said the strata below. The strata was unimpressed.

He laid himself lengthwise out under the sun, facing away. With nothing to say.

The substrata wanted to cry and fall to pieces, but was very brave and held herself together. For the strata.

The strata did not hardly notice. He wrapped himself soft around the moon.

The one below wrapped herself unseen around him. Her utmost energies enveloped the strata and the moon. Like a homespun cocoon.

That night the earth moaned and trembled and shook a bad dream. The terrifying terribles tumbled up through earth. A wave emanated out the circumference. The center of which, where dreams arise.

The morning. Heralded by a rooster. Cocked with a pigeon step out into space. Firm and feathered. Solitary horn.

The sun rose over a fissured and crumbling sub surface. The strata was sunken. The moon gone around the bend.

The sun exposed its every sunken ripple harshly. The strata. Searching for an edge to burn.

None was to be found. The angered sun set fire to the land, all around. Sirens and trucks. The running of the wildlife. Away away away. Trees crashing through the canopy.
The strata lay low and frightened. Whole and untouched. Chosen to exist. Loved and held once, not long ago. Burning fields all around. The sound the sound the sound! No oxygen in the air. Consumed, the world.

The only love alive, recalled. The strata knew, remembered! And lit up and turned its weary back around to face her finally. To fall to fall to fall into her loving arms!

All was left to face, was bits and broken pieces. Some bed of torn up gravel, no! No no no. This cannot be! The strata felt alongside groping lengthwise up and down for her.

But she was never to again be found. Just as lost as she had been. Hours before the moon had gone around the bend. And out to shine.

To shine across the sea.

the one-two -i)

She was a plain looking young woman; hazel eyes, brown hair, age twenty. She had a finite memory, the limits of which were self-imposed. On one side the limit prevented her from remembering anything that ever happened to her before age five. That was the age something good happened. She could not tell you what happened before, only that it was bad. She became loved at age five, and ever since. She was an avid reader, and particularly loved anything by Dostoyevsky. She preferred brown paper bags to plastic, at the grocery store. They reminded her of going to the grocery store with her father, as a child. After her mother died drunk behind the wheel in a late-night backroad collision with another drunk driver, coming home from the apartment of her lover. Just before she turned five. She remembered carrying a brown bag in her arms, and the sound and smell of the paper. Following her dad to the car. Age five. A plain brown bag crumpling, but secure in her arms.

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He was a dark-haired young man, with a cut and a part in his hair like William Butler Yeats, portrait of an artist. He had a smart way of talking, walking, thinking, responding. But was naive to love. He had a family history of bipolar. There was also a family history of running away, but this was only known by interstate records of relocations. He was twenty-five. He was ambitious to a fault. Job promotions and self-glorification would always have to come before anything else. These successes could be shared, so long as whomever shared them decided to forego anything that would get in the way of them. His mother had died young in Calcutta, of self-sacrifice. He had no Indian in his blood. He missed his mother. His memory of her was the only thing that got in the way of his uncanny ability to drown everything out and focus his clear mind on his unparallelled effort to succeed. He used to read, and preferred Tolstoy to Dostoyevsky.

to be continued…

Katya Mills, 08/13