Bags long in the carryall orbit
Joanie Cappetta

I never understood “what’s in yr bag”
I also want the secrets but not like I want the unknowable:
glamour that daemonic thing that just happens like a black radiance of trees exhaling mist after that rain finally broke the wet humidity
Every girl knows the purse is full of trash, but I want her to see my commitment to looking / like  full of flowers and herbs

In the dusk a baby deer follows the road, looking for its mother
The horse stares after it

In a dream ,, so committed,, I burn my leg to charcoal and wonder if I could draw with it
some masterpiece might be lurking in me
waiting for the charcoal of my body to emerge

I have been 16 since 2009, standing with you, the loss becomes/in asocial tears and cigarettes.
Experience is solitary until sun or moon permits us to witness their other forms—possible on the shoulders of transit

We are what we always have been

Bliss, formerly Bucolic Green Hills

In this dream an outline shimmering & punctuated by points of light

it is shaped approx. house-like and in apparent relief

against the ground a suburban pastoral in high saturation greens & blues

which seem computerly, borrowed from the Windows XP background image of a field,

though these tones are actually so common on sunny days

and that image actually was not manipulated in a computer

other than its endless compression and reassembly.

Florentine seems to have seen it too, its strange & undeniable beauty

on a day like this.

Colors that are most emotionally resonant may be muted, they may also be vibrant.

They seem indigenous to our hearts. They seem directly reflective

of extremity of feeling which we struggle to accept as knowable,

resonating at frequencies that began as tone in the depths of our souls.

We tolerate the ongoing darkness as unknowable

we refuse the presence of these wavelengths in daylight,

that they are random neither to us nor to the plant, who also experiences

extremity of color as heat, cold, drought, and solitude

on the same cellular level. In our refusal we reject the possibility that this color

exists outside of our constructed reality.

I wish I could vomit selectively, get rid of the bread and hold onto the tequila-soaked pineapple

I’m going to exercise, one type of sugar feels more welcome. This is my body speaking

a language it stole from my heart.

The conservatory is proxy for computer—a radioactive green,

a blush pink, an impossible black are common experiences

between my companions and the plants. I learn something, watching

Amelia smile at yellow rot and wine colored tongue leaves,

about her feeling landscape. Inside the glass

normal boundaries subordinate to less ordinary identities

like, being inside the glass. There’s a mimetic triangulation

that only exists inside of us—

Justifying this map of color to a map of memory

I feel something physiological, faint, and involuntary—

then, an artifice: the aesthetics of shared visual experience

(when we remember this later, we will talk about the shape of leaves).

The former is between me and a plant.

In shared experience, surfaces gather defensively the uncanny feeling that a plant is acting

like something so twisted and sinful

in its neon blue and sagging flesh

it could only belong to us.

I don’t want to want to know what that shimmering

outline was about in my dream. I want to believe that dream will reveal itself

to be inherent like a hill which knows many colors in a year,

experiencing tone according to sensation

communicating sensation through self evidence.

Its only meaning is its beauty and that we both looked at it,

so, agree that it exists, in the dream.

One day there will be a house-like shape

I’ll walk into it, or I’ll walk past it: I will be changed, or I’ll change some other way

and the fact of the change, whichever, will enter the realm of fact for whatever

happens to see.