Hannah Neal
JUNK MOOD
we never
have
the space
to fuck
there is
a chasm
between
my ocean
your farmland
it is coal plants
the air
in this city
is bearable
only because i
want it to be
for you
i want to journey
through heteroland
on my high horse
in the rain
squeezing my thighs
like a rodeo champ
while i hold
the umbrella
over
your head
the way you taste a fog
in New York City
is either too much
or not enough
the phrase alone:
skimmed off the tip
if you want
spontaneity
you can have
every
flavor
of exhaustion
sex and milky
discharge stuck
to your dick for all
the pillows
and dreams
i missed
if you want
consistency
you can always
leave like faulty
clockwork
the bar owner’s
boyfriend
who is an artist
coined the phrase
“junk mood”
told me
crystal we could hit the road
crash into metal
forget the impact it was
brief and for the rest
of our neverending story
we met on the internet
you
materialized
the man
in white linen
to ask “who made you?”
and teach
a lesson
in pirouettes
on stilts
over
the brooklyn
bridge
what an impos-
sibility it is
to mind
the gap
heels sinking
faster
than my head
at 6am
under our
breath
we watch
firefighters
disappear
into the mouth
of the greasy
white
clouds
PORTRAIT OF A DONUT AS A YOUNG HOLE
Wrapped in sugar, I cried into myself until I tasted salt.
Donut shops are disappearing behind lesbian bars because no one
likes eating their Wheaties anymore there are too many holes
to be filled and the holes that needed filling were already full.
This kid on her $1 shit wants
to sit on the cake where he eats it.
You taught me
to include the constellations
and in my attempt I scattered
powdered sugar in honor of past patterns.
You’ve come to know the tunnel
inside of me better than anyone:
how deep it goes, what could be scraped off,
wanderlust as a substitute
for spelunking for the moments where
your mouth fills with soft and supple
and it is uncomfortable
slow your roll.
Chew with your teeth.
I’ve traveled as a party of one
hour sleep to sit on a bench brown
paper bag blanket without you
and it is truly a mouthful of morning.
I don’t even read the ads
on the subway it is just my reality
not paying attention, no storage capacity.
Missing from center like I’ve
been hit by an expert dart player too many times
or mauled by a bear. I remember having desire
to be both Robin Hood and the masses instead
I got stuck floating in the wave pool at Six Flags.
When I returned, years later,
the e-coli had frozen over.
It was special, and so
I wrote
How to Find Life: the frozen androgens
hunched over time tubes and inner rafts
with Blue Tooths.
If I were to return again: free donuts
even for those who have trespassed.
Nothing like catching flies with sugar
I mean friends
I mean until they bite down and discover
you contain salt after all that is the hardest practice.
No matter how many chemicals are in the application
you can never be truly fresh and you will always be
accountable for your ingredients.
I cried into myself
because I have a hole to fill.
The flakes will pass through my airways
and I will be reminded of your huge fake blueberry gaze,
how you stole my OxyContin just by standing next to me.
I needed it to breathe in this sobering century
both enlightenment and second coming.
I’ll even take the bench with me so I can bench myself as needed.
You will sit beside me and critique my glaze I’d like that
I think. Sometimes you just start thinking.
I’d like to thank Jesus for not
shaving me and the anonymity afforded
by New York City so that I could
lend my unique perspective to this particular and
completely unshared loneliness.
THE BLUE OYSTER SUNSET AT THE DANCING INN
We ran down broken
escalators entangled
our feet and made
echoes like shine
on tin, though light
was a dusty stained
glass tinge. It made a swarm
of you, all around me. Though
unwanted, comforting you
were steadfast
in footprints.
The escalator glitched.
You were led to a ship
yard with thousands of dead clams.
I couldn’t fathom the depths.
Sure
plots twist, notes go sour
but why is it
that one minute you’re dancing through a tunnel
and at the end you are a fishmonger living
in my recollected harbor raising dead clams
up from the water instead of children?
Sometimes you hear cries coming
from the inn though it’s long abandoned
by the humans that renovated it.
They didn’t intend
to die there. You used
to memorize phone numbers.
Your eyes
won’t adjust
to the bigger picture.
You didn’t intend to die here.
You cast your net
against a concrete grid. It hits.
The pixels slink down without grasping
at anything. The ocean is a familiar.
You cannot tell whether it is moving.
You cannot resuscitate it.
You cannot recall the dance
of lines and fishermen.
The blue oyster cannot recall a time when
it was not blue. You wait, but there will be no great wave
to mask its face.