Hu-bump
 
Hu-bump
 
Hu-bump
 
With every turn of the tire, I feel the hu-bump.
KILLER RUBBER SQUASHES BIRD the headline
Resounded like a choir, a reverse echo, one that
Gets louder with every hu-bump of the bird murder
Rather than softer.
 
I ran over a bird. Involuntary bird-slaughter. Accidental.
Pile of concrete colored feathers thunked the hood
Of the neighboring car at red-light.
Green-light.
Bird slid off, perfectly coincided with my tire,
And hu-bump, then sobbing.
 
October 20th, 2015, the day I murdered a bird,
Also the day Ohio delayed executions for seven
Death row inmates: 2017 would be their death year.
My previous theory that Ohio
Held only four people within its borders
Was proven wrong.
 
Meet Robert Van Hook.
Setting: Gay bar, Cincinnati,
1985.  Robert “Bobby” Van hooked
David Self, unsuspecting. Strangled
David Self. Stabbed David Self.
Murdered David Self. Homophobic
Panic, self diagnosed.
 
Bobby will be injected on July 25, 2017.
He will be married a week before
To an Australian pen pal. He has waited
31 years to die.
 
Meet Sr. Helen Prejean.
Born: Baton Rouge. Occupation: Nun.
But none of her nun occupation
Would endorse death penalty.
 
Do you know how the death penalty is performed? Performed, they say, as if it is a show or talent that we can watch, that we can clap at the end and say, “Bravo! Again, again!”
 
Three rooms, separate. Four if you count Bobby’s, who will be imprisoned on a gurney, a word I hate for how it comes out the mouth, like regurgitating a word we can’t remember from long ago. Gurneys, wheeled beds who roll patients to their saviors, or bodies to their graves, now also used for those in between, those being rolled to their final living destination; straps will coil around his wrists and legs.
 
Patches and heart monitors will pepper Bobby’s chest. His lungs will probably expand in, out, in, out, in, out, rapidly, as if they know that soon, their job will end. Two needles will prick and enter the epidermis. They will slide into place with trouble at first. Poking, poking, poking until the right vein pops.
 
Enter Isotonic solution. Harmless.
 
There will be a curtain call because an audience will have gathered to watch the “performance.” Spectators loved ones of both Bobby and David. Curtain between Bobby and his spectators, and curtains separating the other three rooms. A second injection will slither in, rendering Bobby sleepy.
 
Button One. Sodium thiopental. Anesthetic. His unwinding will be unknown to him, unless they do it wrong. If they do it wrong, his stomach will swell in unknown hernia, and his gasping for air will penetrate the glass in between him and his spectators.
 
Button Two. Pancurium bromide. Liquid will ink into veins, muscle relaxer—if done right.
 
Button three. Potassium chloride will stop his heart. Some will say his heart stopped long ago, in 1985.
 
Sr. Helen Prejean is the one who told me how; the three drug givers will sit in separate rooms out of view of the audience, of Bobby, of the doctor present who will only be required to announce when Bobby is dead. How odd will he feel? A doctor, there to make sure death is safe. How odd will he feel? There is a button for each injector. There is a light above the button. When it comes on, Injector must push their button. They do not know which of the three they are. Who delivered the final dose?
 
I murdered a bird in 2015. Hurt, bobbling, painful rasps exuding, probably, from its chipped beak. It was a pigeon, the scavengers. Did it plunge in front of my car to end its suffering?
 
What’s worse, the dying, or the waiting?

✱✱✱

Surrounded, I feel suffocated
This murky bar, club, whatever you want to call it
People are packed in tight like canned mandarin oranges
But none of them will ever be as sweet

I see them all, and they stare back one by one
The hunger in their eyes
Thirsting to quench their loneliness
If only for a night

The music plays on

I don’t know how to be hungry
You see to that
You make me feel assembled
You make me feel full

I think about going home
Because crowded spaces make me nervous
And I don’t people well
Hello my name is Awkward

The music plays on

I don’t know how to be confident
But you open me up
You show me how to grow
You show me how to thrive

I think about drinking more
Because liquid courage is supposed to help, right?
My anxiety is noxious
Greetings from planet Getting Drunk

The music plays on

I check my phone once, twice, thrice
Maybe you got caught in traffic?
A pack of bros bump into me and I spill my drink
The big one shoves me

“Watch where you’re going Fag.”
My throat knots and I wince at the last word
My shirt is soaked and stained
My eyes lower and I turn to leave

The music changes

Suddenly big, hairy arms wrap around my wet torso
“Hey beautiful, where’s the fire?”
Your beard tickles my nose as you kiss me
A tear rolls down my cheek
I lean in and kiss you back

I stare into your eyes as you backpedal us onto the dance floor
I don’t know how to dance
You know all too well
You try to sway with me romantically
But I stumble and we laugh at my two left feet

i walked with marissa and her roommate the few blocks from their house in riverwest to bremen’s cafe. when we got there we could hear a band in the back that was covering pedro the lion songs. it was an event marissa’s friend was putting on and marissa seemed to know the majority of the people there. i rarely go out and even though marissa introduced me to most of the people she talked to i still felt uncomfortable. we watched the band for a little bit and then got more drinks. jake was sitting at the bar and he bought the three of us a round of rail tequila shots. i went back in the room where the music was playing and a my chemical romance cover band was setting up. i didn’t know where marissa was and i was starting to feel extremely anxious and upset with myself. i’d really been looking forward to tonight and going out and being social again but i think i’ve spent an irreversible amount of time alone and instead of enjoying being out i just wanted to cry and be teleported back home so i could pet my cat and listen to beach house in bed. i took a sip from my beer and still felt exactly the same. i didn’t know where to look so i looked down at my feet and instead of seeing my feet i saw a large black dog with brown markings looking up at me. i pet the dog and asked if it was having a good time. it wondered off and shortly after that marissa found me in the crowd and then jake found us and we all danced and sang along to songs i hadn’t heard in years.

zuul is a 7 month old pug whose  owner is staying with us for a few days. he's basically the naughtiest dog in the world but so adorable he gets away with everything. this dog could literally murder me and i'd still love him.

today’s my last day in the midwest, i fly back to arizona at 10pm tonight. it took a long time but i convinced jake to wake up early this morning and walk down to the lakefront to watch the sunrise over lake michigan. i used to do this all the time by myself when we lived together in milwaukee but i needed him to come with me otherwise i couldn’t get past the security checkpoint and back into the dorms. on our way back we stopped at walgreens on state and roosevelt to get some food. when we walked out we had to wait to cross the street and standing in front of us was a medium sized white and dark brown pit bull. its owner had his back turned to us and i pet the side of the pup’s happy face and it licked my hand all over. after we crossed the street jake said “sneaky dog friend.”

tonight was the second night of ‘this lil lit fest’, a 3-day event for small publishers in denver put together by catch business. spy kids review’s showcase reading happened tonight at a nice bar. catch, scout, and steve all read. a lot more people showed up for it than i thought were going to. afterward catch had an open mic style reading in her backyard and a lot of ppl showed up for that too. someone brought a medium-big white lab and i don’t remember what his name was but it was something wacky and adorable like booper. i was in the living room with a few other people when the dog walked in by itself and i said i was really happy it was there bc 1) i love dogs and 2) it meant i could write about tonight in this journal. someone asked to hear what i have so far so i took out my phone and read condensed versions from the beginning up until zuul and stopped there bc i thought that was the funniest entry so far and i wanted to end it on a high note.

a couple weeks ago i started working at a call center for verizon wireless and i made friends with a lot of the people in my training class. one of those people was emily and after she found out i’m vegan she insisted she set me up with her best friends krista, who’s also vegan. i dm’d krista on instagram and we talked for awhile and made plans to go on a ~6 hour hike as a ‘first date’. when i got to her house she walked outside carrying a tiny and super skinny rescue pup she had adopted ~5 days before. we walked in her house and 2 small adult dogs started barking. one was a lil wiener dog named rigby and the other some kind of chihuahua mix named mordecai.
 
after the hike we were exhausted and sweaty and she asked if i wanted to go hang out with her friends and i was like, “okay.” we went over to her friend brandon’s place and he had a small and energetic dog that i kept referring to as “pristine”. krista told me brandon named the dog toulouse bc he’s obsessed with ariana grande and ariana grande has a dog named toulouse.

gonna save myself for Jesus and marry a butcher. gonna burn dusk like a spliff. gonna fuck with my body till it feels like something. gonna fuck with my body till it falls out completely like an egg yolk. i can break it hurt it throw it out all i want but i get to keep my soul.

-

maybe i don’t deserve it but i’m tired. i would like to just stop. i don’t really know what that means and i also feel the exact opposite. like i would just like to go. to any where. i like feeling night time on my skin wandering but going some where it doesn’t matter where. and then when it feels right to stop. and then stop.

-

paradise is an old highway with a motel painted pink with fake palmtrees out front and printed onto a postcard taped on the wall next to my bed that i look at when ever i pause from reading some thing and the lighting in the photo takes me into some one else’s short story not one i’ve read but feels familiar enough with out knowing how it ends so it’s probably my short story that i’m writing

i think the end of the world would be okay
with you
hairstill and arms waving
wrapped in clothes and hands and the music as it fades out
and more fades in
our hands interlace in air anchored by elbows
 
and someone threw the stars out into the sky like spit
all the dandruff sprinkled over all we know
 
i don’t know how it would end
i don’t know how the stars would disappear
or if it would be us that went first
stepping off the edge like waiting for a stair that isn’t there
but i think i would lie still
arms full of you
mouth numb to all i don’t want to hear

​growing up, i ate kiwis
like apples. my mom would cut them into slices
but when she wasn’t around
i chomped down on them whole
to let sour juices fall down my chin
 
this afternoon i am eating delicate
slices from whole foods
i can see there are little veins
connecting the seeds
of the kiwi to its core
i never noticed this before
 
i learned recently
raspberries are roses
or part of the family, at least
and them and strawberries
aren’t berries at all
i heard it’s because
their seeds are on the outside
or something, maybe something
 
anyway
what i meant to say is
by the end of winter i forget how
peaches are my favorite fruit.
not-quite-ripe kiwis are
somehow easier to find
and i tend to cling
to what’s close

​with silk ribbons draped from your neck
like ballet shoes
sitting in the sunlight noise,
you are rich, almost to the point of sweetness
troubles drawn out slowly
from under your skin.
 
my toes are covered in lemon juice &
i have river water on my hands that won’t wash off
i ask you to come stretch my bones
today, i am trying to find the heavens.
 
i can see remnants of god in the angels of your face,
yes the angels, playing lightly on your cheekbones
i watch melodies form & think of your fingertips
on my palms & of a girl who read them once.
 
a single deep, solid line to represent love, i was told
my influence turns weak halfway through my life
yet still, my love remains; a crevice
making its way through my fingers
like a river.
 
“here.”
you extend your arms towards me
& it is my choice to grab hold

the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers
has the freedom to feel the weight of itself
we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density
 
i don’t sink, i float on stone
a piling of mountains too light to subside
and must be rendered old by other means
 
there is no mountain of a sandbar that can grant
eyes to the other side of the atlantic
guarded by a curvature that works only in aggregate
 
punctured by dolphin fins and boat sails
outlined by sunsets and sunrises
clouds cresting over waves
 
the water doesn’t lap, it rocks, quakes, quivers
has the freedom to feel the weight of itself
we all rest somewhere, in a gradient of density
 
the other side of the atlantic doesn’t exist
or, if it does, exists a galaxy away in time
only it’s ghost bridges the distance, carried inside me

​“Blazing fires,” yelled the Preacher. “Blazing fires will purify you! Just go on– walk through them a sinner and exit a saint!”
We smiled and we clapped.
The next day, we all lit our homes on fire and strode through our front doors into the flames.
Oh, how it hurt! How it burned– how we melted! We all rolled on the ground, writhing and screaming.
The Preacher tore off his face and his bloody skull laughed at us from our front yards.

The Hand of God reaches down into my shadowy inferno and yanks me out like an elevator going up, up, up.
I am a prophet and no prophets need eyes. We see the darkness and walk through heavenly fire.
So, I blindfold myself with white bandages.
A black serpent has curled up inside my head. I feel it inhaling my clean air then exhaling its own polluted smoke into my lungs.
On a Friday, I tried to gouge out my eyes so it could escape from my skull.
Despite all the blood, it still hasn’t moved.
As a gift for my sacrifice, the Hand of God touched my blackened eyes and taught me how to see like angels do.
I awoke on a Sunday in a white room dressed in a white robe.

✱✱✱

i sniff at every room i enter, expecting blood everywhere. starting from 
between my thighs onto the wall. this is a healthy habit.
i check the stove a couple of times for a gas leak. deaths should be as
deliberate as the skeleton of your body on my bed. could say there’s
some history there.
in my mind, a trail of catpiss. in my mind, the fire dies out as I wait.

last night, baba played begum akhtar. again and again; that woman who
yearned to die, that woman who confided in strange men in strange
places. her strappy voice cut through my veins letting open a river. the
air was salt. only so much colour i could scrape off the nails.
my eyes swivel to the old winkowl and pause, lids heavy with secrets.
this is not the night I die. when the dreams come, i welcome it.
despite the crushing feeling of inadequate reality, after. when I leave this
space, i will leave no gaping hole.
seventeen times I woke up last night, seventeen times I missed a train.
there was little to take off, but the nails fought back. the colours faded
not enough.

a crochet of blood later, we ate at each other. disciplined the storms in
our chests. nudged calves into creases. chased the crest and then the fall,
so soon, too soon.
so less, too less.

if there is a noose, i don’t die today.
if there is a noose.
such a shame the patch outlived the planter.

​                                    ‘don’t tell my father i have died.’

ACT 1
I’m standing in front of your mom, fingers
Twitching at her sides, blindly grasping at your
           Silhouette
                                  Stamped onto a silver chain,
Glistening obnoxiously on a hollowed chest // empty // stained // suffocated

                                                                                                                          She isn’t fixable.

ACT 2
Collar bones protrude as she bends forward
           Committing herself wholly to eating a slice of          Cake.

(She’s been put back together by a 3 year old | projects her anger into nurturing | care- taking
           But he doesn’t understand. And maybe deep down she hates him for not
           Missing you                 More.)

ACT 3
She’s comfortable         being worse.
She’s comfortable         not eating | leading support groups

But what am I to say? : if skipping meals and teaching

              Orphaned parents        the task of essential deception is her way of honoring you, fine.

                                                                                                                               She isn’t fixable.
                                                                                                                 But you could have been.

​ACT 4
I’m expecting another phone call. Or a Facebook upload : a sunflower tramp stamp.

             Everyone grieves in their own way
                                                              But please God,
​                                                        Let it be the tattoo.