Bought into the carabiner, every
nice thing I’ve cunninged.
All copper crimped, all banter aside
the yellow gauge of disconnecting.
Every wristed in the rope burn, the unspool
and tensioner snap.
We are a month tiger-weak, but I aggress—
I was always as nylon
and gunning forty. You and another,
any other, only other, and I’m still volting.
A dozen of never ask, never sold,
never bantered outside. I sustain.
Semester, like an anyone
of the carabines.
What I’ve Been Up To…
I am currently an intern at my university’s engineering design kitchen. For the last two and a half weeks, I’ve been working on a project to design a zip-line for the Malayan tigers at the Houston Zoo. It’s a closed, motorized loop that moves chunks of meat back and forth to stimulate the tigers’ natural hunting behavior. Since the zip-line has to be tiger-strong, my teammates and I are working with materials like aircraft carrier cable, bulletproof glass, a scooter motor, and miscellaneous bolts, carabiners, and anchor shackles that can withstand over 1000 lbs of force. Basically, everything my team has built is crazy excessive.
This zip-line has consumed my life. I’ve woken up early to go to the zoo before it opens. I’ve seen the tigers up close. I’ve climbed on top of the tiger exhibit’s 18.5 ft wall (we measured it) to throw a string across the exhibit to determine the length of the zip-line (103 ft). My team has conducted tests by strapping the zip-line to trees, stair rails, tables, and walls. During our last test, we damaged a wall because the metal bolts on our electronics box chipped through the brick. Meanwhile, a prospie and his parents walked slowly past, staring at us.
I have drilled, Cad-ed, Adobe Illustrated, jig-sawed, band-sawed, screwed, glued, threaded, wired, hammered, filed, and made up words like “lasercuttable”. I have collected the little metal and plastic spirals that noodle out from the drill press. I have mixed up my sunglasses and safety glasses. Because safety first.
It’s the best internship I could have ever imagined. And tumblr has taken a backseat to the project. But what can I say? There are tigers that need enrichment. Priorities, people.
Do I recede for the no reason at all?
The not jam to a playlist newing?
The ash-away charcoal,
the tumbling desert?
The thumbing a chuck key in the filling milling
drilling the spiralling cyclic?
Spoked, the wake-up bike
and inboxing routine.
The busy-safe of unknowing uncertain.
So driven as lathe, so tooling
as lasercut now. Interning
at forget-me-anyway, any slip
sleeping like the wrench I am.
Nuclear shrunk, steam engine
and plutonium cut. Valve
pump pumping prestige
so eager to slice.
New scalpel to the old
in the pointed chests
of young calves. They died
at different times, all recorded
and Dick Cheney emerged beating
a heifer’s heart.
Crunch me wiser, analyzer
huff puffing up the breathalyzer are
you crazy or inebriated, post-sympathizer
retreated and feral, losing subscribers
because she fucking hates squirrels
and she will have her revenge.
Still on the topic of squirrels…cherokeeghostwriter replied to your post “Today a squirrel bit my finger so hard that I had to use its own…”
i feed them peanut butter, drives them crazy.Frankly, those douche canoe squirrels don’t need to get any crazier. Sometimes they freak out when I’m biking past and they run IN FRONT of me. And my university is swarmed by them. They’re everywhere.
Today a squirrel bit my finger so hard that I had to use its own momentum to fling it off. My finger has been hurting all day, especially when I’m doing normal things like unlocking the door and using chopsticks. I know what I’m dreaming about tonight: squirrel revenge.
Spokesman lacquered at the helm
somehow ship, somehow knotting
isla de proclamation curving
concave in the spyglass—namesake
flagging so authentic. Immune
to reflect, the careless loch.
Quench me genre, tap dancer
crap canker, jonesing locker.
So called victim and the glory why.
Assimilate against like don’t exist
and stoke a lifebrew grit.
Where is the caucus masting behind?
How did sell the sails so relic?
Are we just I another dismiss from
the cabinet? Bullshit.
Rage the pulpit, I cry
and so will you.
I wield a bread knife at this
gardened game, serrated sweat
rolling like tubers from my hands.
Roots too large to fit. A trowel stab,
a spray of clay. I’ve hit sand, mother.
We murdered the fern into three children.
Is this how we retire an afternoon?
Half-mooning our nails, freckled legs
and split worms? Am I adult
with my own watering, my own obsession
with cranking the spooled hose?
Am I diseased plumeria or young papaya
tendrils still snaring a ladybug
and cupping it jewel?
Am I still tempting the doves
with the butt of my bread?
They love-peck it like a territory
on my porch: I the girl still yew and sporing
across the stoop. Flume, they coo.
Your years are ferning.
sweet, the wonderling
bedhead beetle, a duvet dimpling
alone in a condo.
i’m lacquer horse, a war scene tea.
old enough to inherit a toaster
that doesn’t toast, a pool key
that doesn’t tumble.
jumped fence like a youngling
beached dreams like a nymphling
cinderella ashing, drink eighty-something
the thermostat seed. the appliances know:
this is the waiting season.
this is the tropic weakening
the network stalk, the cilantro truth
of niching alone.
A Real Conversation That Happened Earlier Today
Me: You embarrassed me last night when you told C (my brother) that he may need to help me fend off strong men. You made me look weak in front of him.
Mom: So? He should help you out. You’re siblings.
Me: Yeah, but I don’t hear you telling C that I can beat up people for him, too.
Mom: Okay, I’ll tell him.
(My brother comes home from school)
Mom: C, you know your sister can help you out when you’re in trouble.
Mom: Like financial trouble…
Me: NO! If you need me to kick some balls!
Mom: Or to help with a girlfriend…
Me: Or if you get in trouble with a gang! I can use my brass knuckles!
Brother: Wait, do you really have brass knuckles?
Me: (pause) No. But I bet I can make something that will hurt.