#jennymorris

My new Chapbook: “Wind Tunnel of Trash”

welcome to the road to nowhere.

step softly into the good that you can.

the flesh unscratched

the fleshing wounds

unfleshed

angels

in amiable surrender

and white

shit from a bull

blindness occurs also when the eyes are open

inside a mailbox

please relay this message to

wind tunnel of trash

send as well    the small talk    to burn

the moths resigned to eating words

like candy oranges

50cents a bag

a cheap fix

someone has eaten my clothes again

you’re drinking death milk

white meaning, death in Chinese

hips crack when I squeeze them

I am fully grown or still growing

scribbling on my body

LIFE IS A LONG WHITE SHEET

or a long white shit

launched into blunts

stretched out

like dank feet

painted pretty toenails

any color you want

every color you want

I chip away

I stop to bite

hands move because they are nervous

in curved lines

to feel power

to feel love

to build houses

to feed children

to harm another

to see the difference

between rhubarb and blood

Can you see them?

your hands

the things you touch

the dirt you keep

below the fingernails

People can still see, you know! The finger beds are clear.

It is possible to use your hands wrongly.

if you could track the touched things

in a looooooooooong ass line

where would you go?

and all the things you touched

wrongly

do you wonder

where they go?

whose lips do you touch?

‘cuz your lips are capable

of killing

are capable

of lying

or worse

or better

to teach another how to open their lips

rather than grit their teeth

Yes, lips are powerful!

the air whistling

through the teeth gaps

like the holes between fingers

pulled violently

like string

like a needle

in the night time

your fingers capable

of stealing the gold

off another’s hand

And now they trust no one.

and when you go back

in your jagged line

that person may forgive you

but your fingers

They will not.

My kidneys are cold

and your heart is quiet

in your head

and in the snow

a dark body 

of water reflective

Your diapers less brittle

than your skin

very brittle

like your fingers

softly winking

as they’re tracing the outlines

of my nose

of my lash line

of my mouth

as if you’re trying to save it

for when you find yourself forgetful

your skin

it used to have a smell

used to smell like you

but I can’t remember 

what you smelled like before

your poems

you recite them

over and over and under

in Yiddish

to remember a time

when you smelled of soup cooking

when you told me

you were born in Belarus

but you were not Belarusian

because you didn’t speak their language

and you weren’t welcome there

you recite them

for me to understand

we are not Russian

we are not Belarusian

we are not Polish

at home there was Yiddish, only

It’s been awhile since the last time you kissed the bark of a tree

It’s been awhile since the last time you saw me and knew my eyes

the burning wood smells nothing like your feet

which remind me of your old apartment

termites ate the rug

termites ate the walls

they hissed in resistance

‘till after you forgot my name

meaning you forgot yours

it was awkward

but I love you still

you had mine

but changed it

said I was named after your brother

Jack died in a car crash

or a plane

or maybe, the termites

my back hurts sometimes, but I don’t crack it in front of you because I don’t want you to imagine bones breaking

How did you get here, smelling of nothing?

the sweat is on the window

rolling across the rug

and filling our pores

I don’t always know what to say

you hum

sometimes

often

you hum

we sit and tap our feet

we wait

to let you go just to watch you die and die again

and the walls have been painted over too white

and the window sweat is coming off in sheets

a slow moving body

the immense and still water

that simply refuses

to change its direction