Compact Shelving

I'm Mallory Jo. I'm a Bay Area poet, library associate, grad student and new mom. I'm easily overwhelmed by information and will probably spend the rest of my life trying to find the right place for and connections between all sorts of tangible and intangible things. Thanks for following.
Ask me anything

First draft

A bobber above the water

The skipping line bounces back and tugs at my toe

A hook pierced to flesh and breathing

Breathing up and down

Bubbles floating to the surface—

There must be life beneath the water

 

My consciousness is lying beneath my breasts

Safe for the moment in that small crevice

The wind picks up

And I’m grabbing at skin where no one thinks I’ll hide it

I’m on the verge of losing

A hook punctures my ankle now

This terror of letting go—

It slips away on its own accord



Submerged here and alone

Save my arms that keep me afloat

And it’s staring at me

Disappearing to new depths, reappearing all around my body

This has nothing to do with survival



Reactionary cells in my spine

Something so painful, I’m conscious again—

Awake in anger

And resentment - as if I could impart emotion

On the water



Everyone is so strong, aren’t they—

We are doggy paddling for the soul

If only to keep it above the surface

If only to save it from below

Which is my better half?

This fear is a dark place



The reins of some far off boat, sound

That pierces and holds, voices pulling to themselves

Stringing me along here

And I’m floating now—

It feels easy



On my back like I am

A line straight down through my liver

Laden with giving in

consuming, forgetting—

This is where time flies by so fast

you thought you had not one thought.

Memories are scattered here

You sleep until your muscles atrophy.

theyoungandrew:

shhh, go to sleep

This woman came into the library the other day and told me my spirit animal is the sloth.  Then she pulled out a book full of pictures of sloths she cut out of magazines.  

theyoungandrew:

shhh, go to sleep

This woman came into the library the other day and told me my spirit animal is the sloth.  Then she pulled out a book full of pictures of sloths she cut out of magazines.  

(Source: sallyg94)

"Insert deep comment about my life." Andrew Spencer (YouTube commenter)

I wish I could sing. I have the words.

Tennessee June

This is the heat that seeks the flaw in everything

and loves the flaw.

Nothing is heavier than its spirit, 

nothing more landlocked than the body within it.

Its daylilies grow overnight, our lawns

bare, then falsely gay, then bare again. Imagine

your mind wandering without its logic,

your body the sides of a riverbed giving in … 

In it, no world can survive

having more than its neighbors;

in it, the pressure to become forever less in the pressure

to take forevermore

to get there. Oh 



let it touch you … 

The porch is sharply lit - little box of the body - 

and the hammock swings out easily over its edge.

Beyond, the hot ferns bed, and fireflies gauze

the fat tobacco slums,

the crickets boring holes into the heat the crickets fill.

Rock out into that dark and back to where

the blind moths circle, circle, 

back and forth from the bone-white house to the creepers unbraiding.

Nothing will catch you.

Nothing will let you go.

We call it blossoming - 

the spirit breaks from you and you remain. 



-Jorie Graham 

Fruit that falls

Juice or tea and sugar

if passion needs more caffeine

or carbohydrates to sustain itself or cause pleasure.

A feeling low down in the belly, aching and stifled from the throat when not expressed.

Lies like a cloak over the body - festers and swells  

Viruses spring up in lymph nodes and mosquitoes breed in stagnant waters and not speaking is the only cause of illness

And I am lowly in my passion.

Tacking feelings to ideas, relying on sex passion

Sex that stimulates so bad it draws something out and makes        

creation again - this pull during an orgasm                        where we lap up,   fall back, and cycle

 

Thought

My daughter wakes up in the middle of the night crying as if she’d had a bad dream and that dream has made an impression, one that will make her look away and remember something terrifying or wonderful, it doesn’t matter, in a conversation on her first date or sharing a joint with strangers, answering questions about herself that she will never have all the answers to because so much of herself has been forgotten or could never be explained. And then she’ll realize all this and find herself in knowing that finding yourself is arbitrary.

…anyone who attempts to do both, to adjust to his group and at the same time pursue his individual goal, becomes neurotic.

Carl Jung

There are people I don’t agree with, people I fantasize arguing with. What does this say about me? But more importantly, why have I been trying to please these people?

Ugh

I stopped writing when I had panic attacks

I stopped writing when I met my boyfriend

I stopped writing when I graduated from college

I stopped writing when I had a baby.

I had so many excuses-

I don’t have time to write anymore I don’t even have time to read Writing creatively is such an egotistical thing Who cares what I have to say

And then I lost my train of thought

Other people’s thoughts become my thoughts

I feel disconnected

I cannot articulate what I mean anymore

Conversations are dry

karlpowerr:

fhycse:misstugui:o A bullet traveling through air. This image was created using an instrument called a shadowgraph.

(via misstugui-deactivated20091211-d)

karlpowerr:

fhycse:misstugui:o A bullet traveling through air. This image was created using an instrument called a shadowgraph.

(via misstugui-deactivated20091211-d)

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