I shine like a dying planet
and admit the problem.
People say nothing
can exist without a problem
but I am here to challenge
assumptions until I have
alienated everyone.
I imagine I must be here
for another reason and yet
my heart keeps pumping
the same blood day after day.
When you learn to strike
a balance do you then dissolve
into the scenery? I am bad
at learning. Once I learned
to speak for myself I became
someone else’s bone bag to shake.
It is not necessarily fairness I seek
but a general decency. An ordinary
soft person just once in awhile.
If all trees do is glare up at the sky,
I want to be in that kind of crowd.
Growing taller and a little insane.
What I intend is not a labor
of the body, but an exercise
in pathological refusal. I invent
rhapsodies so convoluted
I deserve a perilous journey
through biology. There is no
sense in evidence unless
it erases indulgence. I know
I am speaking on the frontier
of nothing. Arguing against
happiness is like a mind
malformation. Fortune dealt
without fortune. If I am
honest in narrative I am honest
in every kind of ceremony.
Teaching myself sorry
until the etymology changes.
It never changes. In conclusion
I believe in certain chaos.
Spectacular chaos. Timeless
tumored chaos for the sake
of nothing. I crown the day
and swallow the lake I
was born in.

.

.


Anne Cecelia Holmes is the author of The Jitters (horse less press, 2015) and three chapbooks: Dead Year (Sixth Finch, 2016), Junk Parade (dancing girl press, 2012), and I Am A Natural Wonder (with Lily Ladewig; Blue Hour Press, 2011). Her poems have appeared in Gulf Coast, jubilatConduitDenver Quarterly, and The Atlas Review, among other places. She is an editor at Jellyfish Magazine and lives in the DC area.