The authors composed the work through an intersubjective, partially aleatory method designed to force them to give up control of their relationship narratives and renegotiate their shared past.
"You Have to Face the Underside of Everything You’ve Loved"
In the car, I wanted to imagine
the color "being a fuck,"
a conversation I have no right to
and neither of us leave you alone:
tabloid cruelties, underside of the grasp,
our lives inseparable
from the house hem
while two bluejays soften water-blurred
Who said -- crying --
how to live like trees
from those sorts?
I say, It’s true, believing it.
Her door-eyes shut, doze in butterfly flickers
of my head, in which I imagine
on the shoulder: only she, who says:
Say nothing, you’re just across the porch
And I have. I’m a good person
and I know, someday.
"A Season in Hell'
I learned to hate looking at myself like bits in his lies,
like flyaway hair. Suddenly I feel free—the scent
of death. And every zebra. A far-off mother in silence.
Guys like you are always sorry. My body cupped
a story, all mixed up:
It was our first, our only dream.
Let’s tell stories, but each impressing
with being mean. My marble, literally. As long
as the universe will hold us both, poetry is a game
of loser-take-all. It’s ours again. That’s just the sea.