Twenty Three

February 23,
I’m almost twenty-three
and a snow moon flees
the twenty-second after
a patient 19 years of sick-leave
as if socialists could pay me to grieve
and the bloodmoon was a tease
to the shore
expecting the seas too early
like 24
waiting for more for more for more and more and more
and then less, and less again, if you’ll be my guest
and guess again

and they plead, they say their back is too sore
to carry me. HappyBirthday! to the scary me

They say I’m too heavy but I don’t eat
They say I’m much too hungry to feed,
I’m much too open to walk through your door,
I’m much too closed to be enticing like gore
They say, that’s what they say to me –
“Kaylee, you are a chore:
so exciting, and then a bore
stagnant as peace
and passionate as war
You always up the score, baby,
so proud to be crazy –
Grow up and quit your shit
come back to Earth and think practically,
don’t try to play me again.”

If I could turn it back to twelve or eleven
or anything less than twenty-three,
I’d ask them for Holy Sacraments of Weed everyday
and Amen!I’ll remember to pray
if the bong is long enough
to hit on my knees –
God is good and weed is dank
I’m queer as mud, clear as Sun and
GodBless, Amen! God spread the love,
spread the bud like a bug or hymn

Dear Moon, Dear Sun, Dear God, Dear Friends:
Is it Winter, is it Spring?
Am I ten-years-old or am I twenty-three?
Are we cold or are we laughing dead,
or are we blooming possibility
like nights in a stranger’s bed?

I’m halfway old and mystical
like treasure of time for change,
green and gloomy,
and heavy hesitant heads
hang down, frown,
horny for truth and assumed as
slaves to dread
and whores for abuse

(i.e. “eye see”
in 30 billion ultra-seconds
in every measure of what a human can reckon
the moment of moments
could open up
as simply as a beckon –
but any breath you breathe
is born with a price
in the final parsec or
in the universes’ first second
you go ‘All In’ and you roll the dice)

Well, I already been living too long
to rely on songs
or promises that
were promised too young

It’s always too soon
and it’s always too fucking late
I’m young enough
for you to take the bait
Young enough
to anticipate nostalgic suns,
shining too bright for December
and too dim for August’s ends,
cold in the water and splintered
by magic passed
too many times around
not built to last
and run out from exhaustion

I am an exhaustion
personified –
I will wear you out, insomniac inseminate
always turnin and tossin
and tweaking in the night
with bonified dreams
like an almanac
yearning turning over
scared like an o-possum
frozen in the road like deer

I’m biology expressing itself
like a happy disease –
I am motherfucking twenty-three

like a baby with a beer bottle and cigs
instead of a nipple or a formula
calculating how to live –
I feast on “coulds” like Dracula drink blood
like spiritual cosmology
and being hungry for prude astrology
in the pews of ancient technology
on my knees
and free for the years
nineteen years since the Snow Moon
too soft to hear music of the eclipse
coming too quick
feeling sick
when they say:

“Kaylee, you’re too old for this shit –
you’re a burden of perpetual fantasy”

Happy Birthday, you’re too young to be so decrepit
You are twenty-three and you’re dying quick
for fun and fibs and
the never-ending itch
of fool moon and foul moans
when you’re stranded in the month
of too young and too old
Is it hot or is it cold?
Are we weak or are we bold?


2 thoughts on “Twenty Three

  1. Your writing fascinates me, Phantasma. I don’t think it’s bad to be a burden of perpetual fantasy, though.
    By the way, I’m 23 and will turn 24 in September. Not exactly happy about that since I’m not sure if I’m actually still 17 — or 103 depending on my mood.

    Happy birthday.

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