furnace

Explosive internal nervousness & anxiety, and a lump of emotion in my throat that feels like jumping out if I start talking about what I want it to be like. If it does I'll melt away in tears, acidic with my ungratefulness.

My slow pace is both keeping it down and helping it swell, absorbing every minute I waste, every calorie I allow myself to swallow. It is not really me feeding it - rather, the often-ignored, home-ridden girl who reaches out desperately for any passing judgments, not-quite-rights, floating fears. Some she uses to kindle the explosive hearth, some she allows to escape, some she feeds to the swollen thing. Process is black-dust and staining, her whole body like a charcoal figure chiaroscuro. She grinds shadows whole for her meals, so her whole self is coated, filled.

No one saw her.
Walking past normally nothing could be seen, darkness
Smoke around, trailing, whispering life, but nothing alive

Until some one saw her

diana

What is happening?

I am in a prophecy, stuck in history,
seeing patterns but
an Oedipus unable to escape them
But are there real signs - real marks?
It could all entirely be in my head, lost in a
dense forest somewhere. The feelings I've found here are about
to cut me to pieces. (Or at least cut all my ties)

Am I a replica? Some say history is meant for
learning from, others try to build a framework that looks
like every era. If I can see a framework, am I in one?
And can I move? My breath doesn't blow anything
away, it only makes me realize how tight my chest feels.

This is the question, which may not even be relevant:
Do my parents maintain an equal relationship?
Is there real love and respect? Is that possible
for anyone?

Otherwise, it's not worth it. Please let me be alone,
a lone Diana, but with arrows pointing to the clouds.

If it is all nothing, and I'm running past trees, then
I'll reach the clearing. I'll be out of breath but, as stated,
that won't mean very much. I'll kill the shadow then run home.

neighborhood breakfast

10 past 8am, the clouds are all furrowed up

as I enter the kitchen to make breakfast

sit with my one-minute oats (eating slower 

to watch the crows)

Two blinds frame 

the neighborhood

It’s just two on set today (they don’t have pupils

yet I’m directing mine back just in case)

My sister sprinkled peanuts on the lawn yesterday

I stepped on the lawn today, under all the furrowing

sounding like nothing ever happens here (not even

mockingbird visits) besides murders

and the handful of peanuts I 

dropped in the grass, which

give me doubts despite

its greenness

sitting upright

in the still shadow

white chevy

I don’t really understand

I’m not sure where I left

I’m in the middle of the street

I don’t talk, no I won’t forget

someone who never existed

is now a neighborhood ghost

the curb is lined with white chevys

an effect that has me almost

at an ending I predicted

but I keep reviewing and rewriting

the crows tell me it’s over

the seagulls just keep flying

the shoreline shivers and changes

Seymour, I won’t follow your pages

the space is positive most days

I tell them I’m a poet who stays

some things last a long time

sometimes I am finally fine

sometimes I feel him wrapped around me some things take a real long time

truth X sorrow

why do I

always pull you so

close till I

can’t breathe

then you say

exactly how it is

how there’s so much space

stare at space

I’ve been circling

with an X

on both sides

sport blue dress

locked arms

why do you

say blue needs some

self control?

you are the same

then I show

how it’s like

forget green

wallow tonight

with an X

on both eyes

unlocked fence

by the sea

dear

 love,

not outwardly aligned.

technically leo, ursa minor

passion. like if just scream

love ! voice

funnels inward,

too much.

pour astersims for ,

instead positioned  into ear.

now,

best effort: want to ****ing love !

just space

empty sky spoon

just keep stars across face arms legs hair

keep staring at .

dipper across arm under sleeve

voice narrows

polaris too pale skin

this month's letter

4/22/19

I would rather have my drowsy eyes fixed onto this lethargic motion of your foot in my direction, south-west, while the other remained under a stair. Standing here, water color orange resting upon our arms, testing temperatures for a warm touch - sudden & small. Yet everything seems expanded when I’m peering a perspective of a single bead eye. 

Cannot change the setting now - it’s all committed like a platonic idea, bonded with reciprocality. A - (place poetic interpretation for idealizing human beings, for sacrifice of desire) - common alter, where we stare at each other awkwardly, then I back up into your chin. All my ideas are probably my own (touching but never completely true). 

Please visit me though, flying like a joanna newsom verse, singing from a coast. Hours before you’re late for the store, if you don’t call I’ll never pull my weight to open this (please text me) Funny though - words shuffle together and stick but are never fully alive - only frankenstein personalities. (or documentary bores)

(please bore me without interpretation)

sincerely,

taylor pannell