adelaide meier home

as the acacia performs a bite the squirrel shakes their leaves scream until the hole in your chest sewn shut hold the pressure-bandaged, live a long life the boxwood flicking their tail and mutts scratch their periderm

inasmuch as maturity proceeds life, i tend to fear being of a poor analog because i learnt to fast on demand locked behind the door with a hole punched out insofar as youth was fleeting and an old soul, but moreso orchestrated at best because i dealt out crisis management with a side of lego, dolls, and a capgun colt whereas intellect is corpus of experience, the fable read in reverse- alast alphabet preamble because i now wake up screaming inside a plush filled cot and play pretend hereinafter i adore the bears and birds, run to the whimsy, regress to replace a mature cog

The bloodied eye on my wall has a pupil to watch me pass time, away from the worldly. The eye on my wall is watching me make it stronger drip-by-drop i wait underneath knowing's to come. The solitary eye on my wall drips tears of my lifeless blood, cheers and a toast.

we got high together the u and i in suicide were allied, we decide is it aside 2 say 'twas all lies a year ago u should have died now when i try u don't cry, ally do u c u come first i come 2 sicide twice 4 u each time

it feels good to write in a way that reminds of the delicacy of star-of-bethlehem petals when reflecting on grief. it feels good to see a beautied mechanism of the mind. it feels good to live and die in a succinct phrasing alone. it feels good to read and be reminded of innocent times. to seek feeling good is human. still, as we hinder the more human of us, i struggle to not critique impotent readings that only intend to devise: perhaps ones without substance or a skimmed grasp on two words before a monologue in the non-textual. however, there is a lingering nudge that to not be one of them is a betrayal. that when no one can break down words to any meaning, let alone recognize their place in the artistry, none of this could ever matter. and more than anyone, i must be a pedant to write. so maybe if a stanza can be one gram less speed wasted on becoming human, none of this could ever matter. never-mind a protesting voice will always be present in the mind to re-mind: you can never be right, you can write and none of it matters. why would sappho ever fold to a misread letter poetry in itself is a work that might simply never focus on the author there is a minimal pressure placed upon how the scrutiny of a reader potentiates how one writes who is the modern poet to camus sometimes a wri- ter is there to make a few dollars with a fad stanza two lines writ er- a blank page — and a name below what you find in that reproduction of subsidiary memetic cultural knowledge is: the fairweather peruser will read that paperback and understand the unbroken soil maybe kick the leaf litter and look at a throbbing slug The unkempt mahogany desk is only an abandoned birds-nest with an egg, solitaire, awaiting new warmth A satin-lined swivel adorning a platonic formed bearded, bald salt-of-the-earth-foot-in-the-grave And he scribed living word that only mattered now one- foot-beget-six-feet gone That his tune never met an ear means nothing to an ink-laden vessel on her flight atop sheet clouds So an aviary of doggerel prose all-nothing-worth without a dead man to mourn, oh, dead man to season of his earth How the mahogany is the soul of he who holds the profundity of his grain, it keeps his egg safe due last migration Each one does and emerges spring as a new top coat and I see no mahogany and a cuckoo father to a nesting eagle to perceive the aspect of an integral author, or perhaps novelty, to one poet's nuance is a task only left to, truly, pedants. dually not-novel in analysis, the subjectivity of a poem's meaning is all the same, by a corrupt-party politician to; by an elementary student to; by an esteemed linguist to; by a poetry bestseller to; by a divorced father to; by a ward patient to; by a satirist to; by an ada meier, and i am punished to humanity interpretation unequivocally must not be understood as objective meanings for the wreader nor riter: the understanding of a work is ever floating at a shifting range between an orator's mind and selected line. and where a fairweather peruser may be drawn in by topsoil, the power of a call for the rape of the earth to gain resources an elementary affront to any conceptual deities and still, if a Creator is a poet, the critics will play a convincing colonist. maybe if you get me started on meta-poets you'll hear they should burn in hell when they hang themselves off a doorknob and be read in a high school where she's said to be a poem herself on the state of poetry how do you leave a note that isn't poetry in the most selfish sense and a most fortunate student posits a mental illness or could perceiving the world as a poet be too much to lose a penchance for the empty page of the lifeless and some curriculum "you cannot ever be wrong in the space between the page": and a poet may never feel the floordrop pedants gather in salons and until you decide to enter you may never see their dicks out; staring at each other. words tattooed to penis and palm alike. they are jerking each other off, pedants cannot help but care solely of the pleasure they get to mutually masturbate with a fellow pedant. and it feels good to never be wrong and it feels good and it feels good and it feels good but there is no discussion on poetry without the humanity that drives pedantic necessity and there is no courses on reading a work that makes an eye widen -or there is no line to recur a wavering memory revived past a rotting alzheimers -as there is no repetition or metre to adhere and feel right about and grief feels like the sticky bulb when i ruin another star-of-bethlehem

the boy wearing combat boots battle-worn, his sister's had inherited them last year, he wears it with pride and she was happy with those boots, scratches-scuffs took the best care with mink oil and shine, he did she watched up at a smoother grain, creaseless-unblister'd cavernous feeling in a healing leather, she wore it and cried and without any slits atop he wears her out, she is seen resting her soul, the skin sewn the sole; her leather as it should have been

\A reading of nature\ Knollnose ; Bearunfamiliardrupes ; Williamcarloswillows \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ pareidolia of the faces affront the mind on it i see the knot in a pear and wonder what was cut and why it never grew back find it bound asunder as if a flowering thorax of quince \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ the olive is resilient and still, see only fruitage of the straight branch has value, see a farmer cuts two off kinked and burled ; straight of arrow the lingua franca spake in exchange of marrow a reverse of two host body the give-and-take not a marriage but crippling, see a graft is a callus, still a graft is theft, see \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ says a willow stump scribed by young first love "< Love is a young green willow Shimmering at the bare woods edge. 3" in a eulogy of their leaf \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

When I was five, my father looked me in the eyes and told me the truth There is no loving god that I could pray to, or at least that’s what I heard. In some diluted way he believes what disillusioned me You see, when I was five my father told me not that I would have my bones degrade not say, the woman who raised me wanted to leave for adultery When the adult in me sees no democracy in having your mother punch to bleed. Is it to be played or do you praise when you take the blade to your own child? When I was five my father told me what truth? to plead for forgiveness? A forgiveness from men dressed in suits and lies who took an innocence when I was not home? they put it on display on their shelves but you’re blind to see it; paralyzed behind your own two eyes if no one else agrees it. When I was five I looked in my mirrored eyes, but she wasn’t there She was already kicked out at nine, fine, but scared to be alive Lest he care about anything other than what they perceive as sin? I swallow my pride with my estrogen, in two milligram capsules It makes each day a Schrödinger’s box of whether my father’s house has a safe bed to sleep in. When I was five, my father wouldn’t look me in the eyes, to follow the truth It took him sixty-three years to abide his child was less important than a religion we both criticize, fight nail and tooth A circle of culty men that in his eyes are worth to defend I was five when I made up my mind; there is no loving god In the loveless name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

I became my mother, I became my father I was not born them and still they are in my reflection but not by looks my father's hair too black, mother's chestnut but when she killed me every day and when he cuffed me I became who I am I think of the way I wish to mark the world the knives through my hands gave me a beauty the suppression gave me a maturity the pain gave me a lust the noise gave me a fear I want to make more of me, more god than a christ I want to kill, I want to cuff- they deserve it and I am a parent

I believe that i am predestinate to lust after a deep connection never had but sometimes when i walk to monotony i will see a crow smaller than the rest and she looks at me and we tilt our heads together I lose timidness slower than her and we see each other and i fall in love with the feeling of unconditional knowing how sapien is man to reject a feathered purity could i please be feathered it's this day I wonder if maybe my mom was a crow that fans her tail bent down to click out a grunting screamed beak at unsullied turf where a rusticate-plucked bareskin uncle fertilizes the roots apathetic his fate hurt less than being the peck-wound runt long-ago cynodon dactylon He was a chafer larvae living in a misnomer bermuda and maybe eating Him was retribution enough rip His home and rest by the warmth each fibre torn a belly-full belly full and still never gone next springtime

I smoked my first cigarette after i stopped drinking for the first time, certainly too early for either. I searched the packs i found the same way i learnt i was lucky finding my next drink, when you face the type of lows where coping is no longer taking breaths or distractions you'll take the escape given to you. it's no exceptionality to not know the health risks at 14, what remains is knowing depressants and stimulants alike will mellow the pain. it was in an apartment trashbin, by some chance: rez cigs.^note, one solitary left in embossed red Rolled Gold branding. the only indigenous person i knew was across the way on the floor and i think he quit for weed. there is a beautiful irony in the righteousness of quitting to have some kid pick up a habit on your trash. I knew i could cover the scent of being pickled on stolen spirits but being locked in a room was incongruent to being undetected. I smell family when i walk by a pit that day i only got yelled at for having my candle lit. I leaned out of the window to light it with old redbird matches. it was awful and i loved it

the last time he fucked me he took my clothes off to get in my shower together still i wonder if he knew when my dirt washes off my nakedness is never clean i scrub it raw to erase what he saw under my walls yet how do i burn his eyes to not remember an ex and the hideous flesh i can never escape in suds but he was the first one i wanted seeing something unholy and imperfect not under duress by religion and i wanted i wanted i wanted i wanted so he left he left he left he left

^{^{note. [this was when i learnt these rez cigs had no throat cancer lady huge warnings on them. that, cheap prices, and the tax exemption heavily creates a narrative in which the government is trying to aid in the addiction problems they created in the community. that aspect means much more than whatever poetry i could ever write, the genocide has never stopped- just scaled down]↩}}

^{^{note. [i burn daily, i am a godsent mess, i am more human and i will die by it, i will be fire, i will be my mother, i will still use, i will lose everything, i burn daily, i know no stanza stops it, i am ablaze.]↩}}