On diving into new projects

Starting a writing project to me has always felt like jumping off a diving board. I get the same nervous hesitation with both. Am I going to look cool, or am I going to make an ass of myself? Once I’m in the water, will I want to be there? Maybe someone else would rather be on this diving board instead and I should get off and let them jump. What if I’m too tired and I get a cramp? Perhaps I should have a snack or a drink before I jump (bad idea in both cases). 

One should be getting a fairly accurate picture of how I looked on various diving boards as a child. Standing there perfectly still with my arms crossed anxiously looking into the water. The thing is though, I always jumped eventually. And, once I jumped, I usually got back up and jumped again. These are the things I must remind myself as I sit anxiously with my arms crossed anxiously staring into my laptop screen. The jump into a new piece always seems huge. The outcome and the reception can never fully be known. Thank goodness it gets a little easier every time. 

Untitled Cold

Winter is building outside of your house. We lay on your bed next to the leaky windows under a tapestry half untacked from the ceiling. You made a verbal promise not to fix it.

The room is very dark. Our feet are resting near the pillows and our heads at the end of the bed where our feet should be. I am dreaming.

In my dream we are lying on your bed, but I am awake. Dead to the world your lie next to me. One arm across my chest. Dead affection Dead breathing.

Your arm is heavy and thin. It weighs down on me impossibly. It is crushing my chest. Like a lead bar it pins me. I try to cry out, but I cannot breath.

Ck  Uhck  Ah

I will die here

In the morning your eyes are wide. Your fear is naked on your face. You say I was breathing heavy and thrashing around.

Yes, I thought you were going to kill me Just a dream though, babe

and then the silence

More what?

When the sky writer began there was just a curve and everyone said Oh it’s a heart

ad then he continued and placed and identical curve next to the first the letter M and then the letter O and everyone said Oh lucky Mona lucky Mother lucky Monty

the skywriter went on placing an R and then an E after the first two letters and everyone scowled and said More What?

and we stared up into the turquoise and squinted and wondered if he ran out of fuel and watched the single word disappear

poetry or porn? poetry or porn? poetry or porn? happy saturday y’all

Favorite piece so far from the book I’m working on. Here ya go, in all its unedited glory....

Death and I have almost no relationship now let me clarify something when most speak of Death abstractly it’s all funeral burials life insurance and handkerchiefs loved ones and pets this is not the Death I would like to acquaint myself with

I mean Death as in the force of nature the take as opposed to the give the cleaning clearing wiping away a disappointing dry lawn and also genocide the ant hill bursting out the crack in my back porch concrete done in by my room mate with a kettle of boiling water and also John F. Kennedy and also dinosaurs

this Big Death and I, we don’t speak like a dancing child unaware I move around it like a parent it watches me knowingly ready to catch me when I trip

somewhere along my self appointed magical journey upon the shiny sparkly self absorbed cobblestones of personal discovery I imagined myself interlocking fingers with life in a field of daisies understanding its force its will sharing lover’s smiles without every having to stick my tongue in the mouth of death swap bitter spit almighty how foolish

this would be veins without arteries this is a painting with no negative space a silly saccharine dream I will put to the guillotine when I feel a bit braver

Hand drawing practice. Using drawings of different hand gestures in the poetry book Im putting together. 

Self portraits at 17 and 25

Maggie Nelson, from Bluets

Witch Weekend

things that are familiar to me asking my best friend to casually drip candle wax on the top of my hand shadows of branches that move behind you when  you walk in the dark with a flashlight the forest that speaks is never quite sure why you came it asks you and you're never quite sure how to answer everything is slimy with a mix of rain water and decomposed oak leaves you make ink from the burnt leaves and redraw the forest we eat when we can no longer distract ourselves from hunger we eat tuna salad raw salmon fried turnips potato chips and popsicles we sleep when we can no longer distract ourselves from fatigue we sleep with your chest hair against my mouth with his hand flat on your stomach with my fingers touching the back of his head the day is one long morning that lasts until the sun dips below root level we wander like insects circling around each other in a house that is too big and full of plans then make our own plans on how to seal this feeling up store these monotones of gray and green keep airtight these borderless movements these borderless conversations this outside love these outside noises stay children that take care of each other make promises with dry broken sticks and shape them into a shield dark cold incantations sweet low uncovering trails unscary you don't scare me -L.M.Cook

cloud

the time has come again to relearn myself

I could blame you for living under my skin but

its not even remotely your fault

if not you then something else would have taken up the space

I freely rent out so that

I don't have to feel where my edges are

so that I don't have to scope out my boundaries

so that I blur

what is the difference between disappearing and

simply blending in with the atmosphere

what is the difference between disappearing and

becoming numb

what are

the noticeable changes when I lose myself like this

do my eyes get hollow does my skin look thin is there wind in my voice am I slow

what is the difference between being clouded and being the one who evaporates

your hands go right through me now

hold your breath for me

please

-L. M. Cook

Queen

a two foot high jade plant grows out of the necklace you gave me for my 18th birthday I can't wear the thing anymore not since you cut me out of your consciousness not with your ignorance of my broken situation mediating our interactions not with your eyes focusing on a spot ten miles beyond my mouth not like this so far from reigning as your queen so invisible now

-L. M. Cook

Headache

when I stumble off my bed late on a  week night I am careful not to knock over my bottle of wine that cost less than a pack of batteries I am careful not to trick myself into feeling like I have done something wrong getting drunk on a Thursday because you can't see me spending my evening in front of a screen with my swollen greasy eye lids and sad tired chest I need you more than you give yourself credit for I need you more than I would ever tell another person I really should sleep before I give myself  another headache

-L. M. Cook

Sketchbook doodle of monster me. Some of the most beautiful moments of my life are the ones where I let myself succumb to complete chaos. Ripping apart an entire phonebook while laughing loudly. Telling jokes in a new language that I make up as I go. Crawling across a room with my belly on the ground. Tilting my head backwards into the bathtub of noise that surrounds me. Order is a mask over truth. Chaos is a map of it.