Three Poems – Kate Monica

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8 ACTS OF LOVE & FEAR

Scene 1: Skateboard basement, diluting one of your friends
into losing a fight with her boyfriend & in the end Does It Really Matter
who ruins the party, the last reliable law of thermodynamics being
someone will

Scene 2: The lead singer twisting in the neon
is very beautiful; I will order you infinite whiskey sours
if you will reconcile my latest internal onslaught for the next 4 hours
or distract me—yeah let’s go with that

Scene 3: They sound sort of like Modest Mouse after edibles
‘I thought if I came all the way out here I would be happy’
I think my last honest addiction is to repeating my mistakes in the hopes
insanity, in this vein, is more fun

Scene 4: Photograph flash of your mother’s face falling

Scene 5: ‘You have to get over the fact that you’re getting older.’
‘No, I don’t. I just realized yesterday
I don’t have to do anything.’

Scene 6: And now back to the hospital, Vinny taking a selfie of the arm IV, me grinning because it is so relieving waking up anywhere
still drunk

Scene 7: If this plane goes down I am happy
‘Rick and Morty’ was on—it gives me hope
after the crash & fire & eventual artifacts
we will wake up in a kinder, more bizarre universe
where everything makes less and more sense

Scene 8: But it doesn’t, and now the unconscionable task
of approaching uncertain
I don’t know, everything 

 
 

THIRSTY THURSDAY

Don’t think everything all at once for like five minutes
then approach the next five minutes, and next and next—
this is how you negotiate torture, they say. This
is how you outlast life

this is how you
this is how you
this is you
habit repeated, a personality
blooming skeptically as if after a random & vaguely apocalyptic April frost

so lately I am making substantial promises
I met and ruined and apologized to
a girl who loves me or said so drunk
and is pretty and likes art, maybe Everything
but I still see a girl at a party in a crop top and short short shorts
and want to pin her to the wall or sink of the bathroom, see the sweat & lace
I already know is underneath 

but I am advancing toward the white shard of streetlight adulthood cuts into Fridays
so I don’t even imagine

I wake myself up earlier & earlier, morning & morning
keep the red wet images wherever red wet images live when people are
funneling themselves down the long portentous chute to compromise &
upstanding character

I look in the mirror I say
‘is it working? is it working?’

I stop looking in the mirror

I become so moral I wont look into the vulgar face of my own red wet mouth
and somewhere, the world feels so safe in me it falls asleep
and meets someone exciting and leaves and slams its face against a Friday sink

and I roam numbly, glossy stare in hand, aisle after aisle of self-help books
in a Borders that doesn’t realize it has gone out of business
or feel all of this is taking place

in the tepid dream of someone who has cleansed their mind of red
and cannot tell the difference between sleeping

I look up my astrological composition—evidently I am organized & overwhelmed
with self control I don’t want anything That sounds great I nod at the moon
Sign me up for what I was supposed to be

The moon shrugs Says ‘it is not my job to regulate your impulses,
have you ever considered accepting that your idea of fun
is entirely unsustainable and that’s why
all of this?’

well yeah, well duh
my predilections are intolerable
I think I hear the quiet motion of an involuntary mirror moving closer
and I’m already sorry, and that doesn’t count
and I know it
and that doesn’t count either

 

SCHEMATIC FOR THE NEVER-ESCAPE

‘So do something insane then’       the only logical step, of course, to be illogical
             you can go the route of Cintra Wilson sans the 1920′s hairstyle
bob along the languid waves of passion abound in middle-class rebellion
               be a drug addict in Poland tossing her accent
yes     yes     to anything,     for ever 

     and just now Marissa’s syrupy voice pours into the phone
because it is only 4 pm my time and 3 am her time and she has had 6 gins
not even gin-and-tonics, just gins, and she is one hundred pounds and floating
     about the distance, and the gin, and the Inability to Clearly Communicate
Our Intentions    I say I have no intentions, I’m on a farm in the middle of nowhere
because I almost went crazy, remember? So I’m mostly focused on not doing that
‘this isn’t a joke’     I know but it’s not that serious  ‘well how serious is it’

I am so restless I cant drink without a party in eye-view
Marissa makes herself an implacable o-shaped mouth

Besides Kierkegaard says it is necessary to become not only accustomed to loneliness
but enthralled by it; a girl in a skirt crosses
the street into Somebody
and opens the café me and Vinny waited outside
and for a moment she looks sort of like—
I subterfuge my mossy heart again

My synapses are colic infants My heart is gnashing its teeth again
I had a dream we were fighting in a Target and it was just what we needed
Vinny says ‘it is good to be alone—turn the lens on yourself and sort things out’
I try but I’m always making distracting faces So as to avoid

And besides, Kierkegaard was in love; he just abandoned her in favor of thought
but I don’t think the universe has ever thought of anything
as magical as someone else

I will call her back when she is sober   she keeps forgetting it is my job to get drunk and talk us into ruin   it is her job to     stare at the fish-wire string between our impossible bedrooms & say nothing    I am so scared for the fate of the world the panic has thinned to tinnitus   she feels it in the ear   she is a name I cradle in my head like a glass of water     I am not careful     I am     a photograph she has uploaded                to an eternally buffering feed

 

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About Kate Monica

Kate Monica is a college kid in Connecticut. She has been published in theNewerYork, Electric Cereal, Hart House Review, the Long River Review, The Quietus, Holey Scripture, Control Literary Magazine, and others. Her first collection of poetry, Nervous Universe, is forthcoming from Electric Cereal this summer. She's probably had like six cups of coffee so far today. View all posts by Kate Monica

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