the
ootheca
u heard some people
use coffee grounds
to read the future,
trace mocha sludge
down the side
of a white saucer,
a hairline fracture
into the unknown.
u wonder about the ootheca
shaped like a coffee bean,
pasted under the kitchen cabinet
—could it divine the same magic?
if it could, what would it tell u
about ur new life? apartment?
the inside of the kitchen’s walls
pulsing almond, umber
with german roach hearts?
could it tell u about love,
how it’ll crack like an egg
sac, spill clear
with sixty wiggling antennae,
legs wriggling, scrying
the pantry, unopened cereal boxes
to binge, nibble, sniff
the glue-rich seams
until one by one, every cell of ur body
rolls on its back, remembers
ur nothing more than a cock
-roach
wouldn’t it be nice
if the ootheca warned u
when everything falls apart,
u’ll dart into a dark crevice
in the drywall, hide
in the familiar mold
of another catastrophe
then molt
into something almost
—recognizable.
turning 30
i haven’t tried to kill myself
in five or six years
somehow i still managed
to turn 30 neck-deep in concrete
the dried mortar of everyday
can you hear the roar
of my 20s? frantic pacing
footsteps thrown
across the basement
ceiling caged like a tiger
i haven’t a clue what to do
with another decade
bloating my body with blood
shit
urine breath today
when i sliced through
the soggy cake of my 30s
dragged & scraped the knife
through vanilla
custard strawberry crème
i felt
the world
as it was
i can’t put words
to the antagonist of living
my body’s heave
cleaved by blanket pillow
a small window hangs
above my head like a guillotine
glass spattered
with dust mud sputter
freckles of sunshine
hemorrhaging
knife wounds
meditations in mountain
pose
when i asked
for compassion, it struck me:
i can’t receive
what i refute.
i square my hips & breathe, lengthen
(when is this yoga magic supposed to happen?)
i plant my feet
into my mat
& picture a
tree
—wait—
(wrong pose)
inhale
(accept silence
into the body)
exhale
(repeat)
my biggest fear
with gentle stretching
was shitting my
pants in a forward bend
but then my boyfriend decided to cheat,
spread his
cheeks on cam
(i was done—
—i think)
i understand
how the church fractured his identity
how he laid
with me, penis to penis
(in sin doubt)
my god, for a
moment, i’ll soften
into angel,
love
take my hand
& call it
what you need:
compassion empathy
mercy
Medusa
“its ok if yr 2 young as long as yr gud at what u do”
-A message from a faceless profile on Adam4Adam after I communicated hesitation to meet. We were both anonymous.
Sew
a barbed wire through your lips
and
listen: Don’t trespass
my stone edges,
my dead-mouthed bluffs
howling
the end
-less
cries of a body
l
d
o
e
o
p
with flashbacks.
I
don’t log on to get my rocks off,
I
don’t perform service, miracles:
Your cock
made stone, rock
hard with blood,
softened, rubbery and squishable
as a newborn
skull.
I
don’t come here except
to
hunt.
My
fingers, cobras, tangle the wired tail of a mouse,
snap
the still-warm muscle-meat of a body, remembered.
Skin,
a pixelated arrow,
glitters
in the cybernetic air,
drags red
cells
across
each faceless square:
unbuttoned
chests, torsos—
grooved
like fleshlights.
I don’t come here for sex.
my slack jaw,
swine body
plastic wrapped
in the butcher’s window,
apple lodged in throat,
pulse racing
like a pig in heat,
remember my blood when it squealed?
My
fingers are cobras,
they
slither
inch
after inch of distance,
a
pixel for each kilometer.
In
the dark,
I watch him
inch closer,
face, huddled
and smiling,
eyes hooked
like barbed wire.
The
torpedo head of his cock,
a
weapon I carve and chisel:
Serpent
jut of pubic hair, puddled
fat,
marbled muscle—all of it;
stone,
stone, stone.
Michael Russell (he/they) is the queer, mad mother monster behind two chapbooks, gallery of heartache (forthcoming from 845 Press) and Grindr Opera (Frog Hollow Press). They are the coauthor of chapbook Split Jawed with Elena Bentley (forthcoming from Collusion Books). He has a heart full of rainbows, unicorns and chocolate chip pancakes and they want the best for you. Insta: @michael.russell.poet