The B-Sides of the Golden Records, Track Five: “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”

Before you begin, please be aware that this track does not end.

* * *

Find a large, unframed mirror. Or, if you don’t have mirrors, find something like one: smooth, flat, and reflective, with superstitions silvered in.

Beat it with the most vulnerable part of your body. If you are having trouble deciding what to use, ask yourself: what would you least want me to touch?

Continue until the mirror breaks. Then, continue until it breaks many times.

Continue until you can tell that your body part is badly hurt. Keep going. When you regain consciousness, resume.

On the sixth day, stop. Search for the brightest, clearest light you can imagine. The light should at first feel welcome, and joyous. Then, as you realize that it is slightly more garish than you would like and moreover that it never fades, it riddles your body with a ringing.

Carry each fragment, shard, and piece into this light. Do not clean the parts. Arrange them into a shape resembling the original shape of the mirror.

If you are not already naked, become naked now.

Lie on the fragments. Try not to add more injuries to your body.

Feel the light reflect into heat. As you blister, consider the way that on Earth, every night, in the absence of sunlight, tree branches move up and down so that the water inside of the trees keeps moving, creating a kind of heartbeat that is surer than any you will ever know.

Basic Questions

      What was the experience of death like for you? 

The fluids within my body failed to be held within my body, which, as far as I can tell, does not entirely differ from some experiences of life, 

      At what moment did you know there was an existence beyond earth? 

as when, for example, I lay beneath another’s beautiful body of my own free will for the first time and learned in one of those staggering moments that I had hairs within my nostrils, 

      How did you feel? 

because they stood on end, as if confused by which hole was meant to receive the body that was on top of me, 

      Were you met by anyone? 

rapt into confusion. I once got to see inside of my own lower abdomen. Did you know there is a galaxy there? I have photographs to prove it.

      What things in our world still attract you most? 

My veins make azalea roots that teem with messages. There are lights whose names I don’t know. Malignancies are moons. There’s gold on the ocean shores. Planets made of other planets, growing into one another to rewrite the old rules about space and about time. I saw it all, through the eye within the eye. Someday, I’ll show you.

      What would you like to clarify for our world about your life? 

Daily existence, mine included, was nothing short of improbable. 

      Do you wish to return again? 

Foucault once wrote, “The venomous heart of things and men is, at bottom, what I’ve always tried to expose.” 

      Is there a message you would like to give to our world? 

Rilke once wrote, “You must change your life.” 

      Is there anything that you wouldn’t mind saying that would help assure your friends that you are you? 

Whatever I have loved, I have taken its name in vain.

O Spirit

A bear brings forth her young informous and unshapen.

I now wear the pelt of the conjured beast around my groin.

I think of new words for solace, one of which is knifed.

We take no form until licked into shape by the tongues of those who love us. 

Marigolds

Like oak trees swerving out of the hills
And setting their faces to the wind
Day after day being practically lifted away
They are lashed to the earth
And never let go
Gripping on darkness

—Alice Oswald, Memorial

When I picture Robert, he is in the Public Garden,
watching setting suns, like the ill-fated king, turn all to gold.
Robert with the swans. Robert under the statue of Washington.

Robert amid the tulips. Without a childhood
home, I made for myself a house of orchids, of sewer grates
with fishes on them, of forsythia and maple trees.

Of this I am sure: when Robert crossed the bridge
between Boston and Cambridge, he saw Poseidon.
In late summer, he could tell that underneath

the sailboats is a god, mighty and to be feared.
In midwinter, he alone knew the ice
could not long contain that god.

In the pipes in his home, he heard the gurgle of illness.
I smell illness in the riotous orchid blooms.

What are midnight trees?
I think that once I knew one such tree,
if it is the kind owls gather on nightly

to fight, barking,
eyes dim with bloodlust and the hiss of feathers.
I built for myself a house of orchids, with a cave underneath,

a cave shaped into an armory
brimming with tarantula hawks, giant sparrow bees,
and admiral butterflies.

In place of stalactites hang treeless,
inextricable roots.
O sacred receptacle of my joys.

The day I first learned the word argonaut,
I wrote it in a poem. I searched the seas for one.

I searched the skies. I searched a painting.
In the painting, I found the word spears, which I drove slowly
into my father’s ribs. He I eulogized and he I resurrected,

reaching again for the spears. I have seen
countless full moons fail. Each of them hollowed,
flooding heartfirst the craw-faced light, the bracken

underneath. Then, the sound of a wounded owl,
a soft, sudden darkness in my throat. O, how this villainy.
In mourning, the owls are replaced by hawks.

From one angle, broad-winged hawks
seem to have two pairs of hollow eyes.
We are looking for you, say the kettles of satellites

to the humans lost, to the plane
disappeared, to what lives thirty miles below

the surface of Enceladus. On this morning in April,
Haixun 01, Ocean Shield, and HMS Echo hear a thump
that sounds like the colors inside an oyster shell.

The frequency of the noise can make a heart
stop. Anxious as seaweed, over the sides of the ships
creep hordes of trembling locators.

The satellites stare with breath hitching in their throats.
Between the wine-colored hull of Ocean Shield and Enceladus
lies eight times the distance between Earth and the sun.

Thirty miles below the surface of that geyser-ridden, tiger-striped
Saturnian moon lies life, report the satellites.
The hawks steel their two pairs of eyes up

toward alien oceans on other planets.
What I am is all that I can carry, wrote Deborah.

What can I carry? All that I caught I left behind,
all that I missed, I carried.
The hawks are not looking

toward alien oceans. I am.
I am looking, too, to alien men and women.
I picture hurtling into them, by turn, to serve my lust.

I picture us bent sideways, impaled,
contorted and screaming. I picture
the different shades of a moan.

The word bed fills the four eyes in my mind
with the color gold, gold of the ill-fated king
and the Garden sunset, gold glinting in a decaying tooth,

goldenrod, a haze of pollen, the dragon’s treasure,
a long necklace of many fine gold chains

reaching down to a woman’s hips.
Young man walks down to the river
down to the river of gold.

Young man walks down to the river
down to the river and drowns.
In the word bed also joyously wail

bed the color of ashen near death, bed the fleshly color
of bodies broken for good, bed the color blue
of heart-stopped lips. O, here I lift this one hand

up to heaven. The ghosts of the poisoned dogs
live in the piano. The ghost of my mother, still living,
lives in her excised tumor and staghorn kidney stone.

The ghost of my ability to love without grief, still living,
lives in this poem. All my pockets filled with stones

in the river I’ll be found. Why, then, I am the devil’s dam—
dangle me from a cliff, twelve thousand feet above sea.
O, speak with possibilities. Build me a skin

of glass to cover the Grand Canyon,
throw me on it. Summon a thousand wilding mares,
restrain them with massive chains, foot-long links

of hardened steel. When the chains buck
from fracture, let the mares stampede the glass,
bid them trample my body.

Watch, from a great distance, as the glass cracks.
Watch us beasts entangle. Watch me take a hoof
to the mouth. To the skull. To the groin.

Hear us squeal, and bark, and howl,
calling out, as wretches do, to failing life.

When at last we one thousand and one blood-filled creatures
reach the bottom of the Canyon, throw yourself in.
My voice in your ear will tell you that you were meant to die

like this, a beautiful and inelegant dive onto a field of reds,
some bright and sun-kissed, some dark and pulp-dashed,
your and our blood across the burnt-orange schist.

See, O, see what I have done.      
I fear neither the sight of nor the word for blood.
HMAS Albatross has joined the search for the plane.

It is May now, and there is no sign of it.
The detritus lied. The home I made is of orchids,
forsythia, barbed wire, and burnt metal.

In the bedroom I planted what I imagine
a midnight tree to be. Its roots join the treeless roots

in the armory beneath. Ravished, my hands cut off,
my tongue cut out, I put my home under the wisteria,
craving owls at war under thick purple overhang.

No territory there is that is not mine.
The Albatross, it is mine.
Enceladus is mine. Your innermost thigh,

beneath the wisteria, mine.
Poseidon is mine, and the river between Boston and Cambridge,
and the one that wends through Georgia, floods

into the Gulf. I am dreaming of a monument
to moments colonized by theaters of the imagination.
O monstrous. The O of a mouth without a tongue.

The O of two pairs of lips clasped,
starving on one another. Horns and cry of hounds.

The ballet in my deadly standing eye
is the arrow’s flight into the neck, the horses’ tumble into the canyon.
A nation’s search for a single tiger

with quills in its neck. A spilt cloud of felled bees.
The elephant’s horror in the flock of red-billed birds,
feathered locusts who from their first breath form

trembling caverns with their mouths, their aggregate force
snapping branches off trees. The orchestra plays low drumbeats,
a single singer carving the melody.

Do not, I pray, promise me
an untroubled lake. Take me instead
to the rivers with vengeful gods

under steaming and frozen waters.
Take me instead for the stag, the rifle, and the hunter.

Promise me unending days in which I can picture,
then picture again, a fire whirl,
the slowness of the sea drinking

a ferry or a plane, the gasps of air bubbles
around carapaces, the moons of Saturn.
I myself am hells, and I prize them

as if they were the rarest blooms.
Promise me I will always reach again for spears,
await the horses on the glass

above the gaping, hollow O of the earth.
ALL IS LOST. FLEE THIS HOUSE.
So chants James’s Ouija.

or perhaps in the palace of time
our lives are a circular stair and i am turning,

writes Lucille’s ghost-guided hand. Always in my mouth
I hold the head of an axe with its bit at the back
of my throat. O heavens, can you hear a man groan?

Here nothing breeds but we fazed and hungry. O wondrous thing.
Worlds such as this were not thought possible to exist,
writes the astronomer. It is June.

Deep beneath those golden waves
of the river I’ll be found.
My sister has joined the list of those I mourn.

Her ghost lives in each powder-winged moth.
In the ballet, the stage fills with a troupe of dancers in dusty gold skirts,
shoes asphyxiation blue, hair the tones of flesh.

Center stage are six dancers who wear only red,
moving in unison

so they throb as one bloodied yolk.
The troupe around them shudders
as though in blissful death throes.

The single singer quiets. The orchestra
breaks down its instruments.
For my brethren slain

I ask a sacrifice,
O barbarous, beastly villains
like myself.

Die. Die saying please,
die longing, die helpless,
die with your eyes fixed

to the most treacherous side
of a mountain, to newborn stars,

to planes not found.
Die with your throat stuffed,
so that each moment hereafter

is a dream of a gasp.
Die, so that my midnight tree might grow
new branches, die, like a sapling struck by lightning

in an ash-ridden and still smoldering field,
die amid the tulips, die smelling the orchids I grow,
die in the mass of horses in a pied flock of shrieking birds.

From the oceans creatures great and small
take to the land. From the land
each parachuted seed

takes to the sky.
From within my armory

comes a scent melodious and unearthly.
A strain of moths, black, flies as though sewn
each to each at the wing. Their flight path

blooms dark into the gray air
like a print from a silvered glass plate.
Soon we will learn our bodies are formed

of dead stars, so that if we made incisions
from breastbone to rectum, the caves within
would reveal themselves to house celestial ash.

As the stag, I fear the mouth of the rifle.
As the rifle, I point my mouth, deadly, toward you.
As the hunter, I execute myself so I may feast.

Worlds such as this were not thought possible to exist.
My lord, I aim a mile beyond the honeyed moon.

Related Poems

B-Sides from my Idol Tryouts

1. Just like in true life
The wild geese approaching treason, now federated along one keep
May we find a rafter

 

 

2. I like the way you don't
go into the cabin
That is how I like it: methodically, mythically, my accidents are protests,
are my only protests, they are never accidents

 

 

3. We even misprism the past
Turn our waltz on the face of another
To turn on
To turn against
Opposite statements that express the same, sometimes, or binary like the lines:
Man is something to be overcome, what you you done to overcome him
or
Just how far can you push the heroic guy to being evil
and how far can you push the villain to being somebody you can
care about
or
Floodtide beneath you, I see you face to face

 

 

4. Check out your mind
Masquerading with dawn
It was invented by the press
Press harder (press not push)
The bell, the liquor, the deck of card crisp hardships surfacing as clovers and nights at his club getting low, if they ask you to sell them, don't
On the Corner, (side 1) try
Thinking of one thing and doing another

 

 

4. Repeat: But we are
Only getting rich in order to repeat these trips

 

 

5. But we are getting rich in order...
So neither group can be understood except in relation to the other
as in/
as out/
as excuses for true stories—

It's just that his passion costumes his thoughts,
not just his past
Not just a fat vacation Sunday
Also an emaciated smoke break
Also broken into images of smoke,

the way smoke moves
From tobacco
or factory chimney
your mouth
your vandalised memory
in order
to get rich
Someone has to work there and believe it into disappearance

 

 

6. Wealth: I am farmers/I am a thief.
Fame money/anonymous fame/factory farmed/black thief/by black I mean/
Buy black I mean
We are what sells
Thinking to ourselves:
Something in me wishes this wasn't my poem—
That emotion is glory or—
still?

 

 

7. Compliments: The only one I want is (the) speechless/
ness, (he) nestled in me bold and hip like a broken risk

 

 

8. Peaty Greene, Casius X (who's that) Jack Johnson, Blind Tom Wiggans, Bama the Village Poet, Gregor Samson, Fred Hampton, Josephine Baker, Lester Young, will you give up your death for me? Teach me why I am a destiny

 

 

9. If you think about me, and you ain't gonna do no revolutionary act, forget about me, I don't want myself on your mind

 

 

10. Anyway, innocence. Man is something to be overcome, what have you done to overcome him. Digitally pacing the stage as his future and his past, a full body holograph of Tupac Shakur. But then when he got shot no bitches came out, no music, nothin'. Just some critics' unphased mumblings: man you were marvelous but your co-star the gun was a bit over the top

 

 

11. Rehearsal for God Bless the Child.
I wanna get it right
Let's start with 'rich relations'
Green sides of goldsides
I immediately had to get a drum instructor a trumpet teacher and a sword twirling coach. Get your silence together. Hope is final

 

 

12. Super soul/supra soul/hip hop's egoless self-agrandisement is the next
toll/phase on the free/way, high/way, autoroute, or space between proof and privacy in loose weather

 

 

13.The man you love is walking home in Hollywood. 5 or 6 police cars come up, about 8 cops around. You fit the description, you always fit the description, you fit the description of a robbery in the area. A black guy, wearing jeans, 5'8," the whole thing

 

 

14. He had dreams of really hitting it big with his stereo store
He'd play samples of Caetano Veloso singing 9 out of ten movie stars make me cry, I'm alive!, or— One thing leads to another, but the kid is not my son or god bless the child that's got his own

Woman in Dub

“I’m gonna put on an iron shirt and chase the devil out of earth.”
            — Lee “Scratch” Perry and Max Romeo

Side A.

The devil I see is the one I saw and nail out of fears   out of cycles of wound   dread calcifying into prophecy    I put on an iron shirt to face it chase it but the cop still piss drunk with power I put on an iron shirt but the men on the street surveil the nipple   been hounding my punani since             before I spilled my first blood   what a menace of a body   I hurl blame to the husk   is the devil real or is it of my fantastical making  the answer is not the matter   the fact of paranoia be the true violence   warfare: the very presence of the question        I want to peer inward   to take a good look at the soundsystem     my heartbeat echoing out of my folkloric thirst   my desperate belief in other realities   a B-side where I’m abolished from emotional labor aka black woman’s burden  free to surrender to my own madness  to sink down into the dub of it   stripped of my first voice   reverbing outside the pain of a body—



Side B.

            stripped of my first voice    

 

                                               down in the dub            cop hounds my blood    

into paranoia           a black reality            

 

                                                                      cycles spilled    

 

                 power husked   
                                                                                         emotional woman I   I

I iron                            real street               folkloric and mad  
                                                                                       tr tr trrrruuuueeee  

 

take a good look at the devil

                                                     peer into the dread   

men surrender to wound: drunk        calcified                                          but I   

                        fantastic                 
                                                          chasing echoes       

 

 nailed to system                                            free in sound

 

                                        I       a fact      

 


                                                             answer of my own making


 

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