Author: pepito wheezy

pepito is a poet/musician living in Austin for a little while. She has been published in the Silo under the name "Kathryn Henderson" and can be found on tumblr and twitter.

fan letter #377

there is a pipe dripping in my bedroom. tell me, is this significant
I think it has something to do with the development of mold
(I think you would understand)

once I thought I had a type, as though I had a favorite fruit
I want to bite the fruit but I’m not sure it’s my type

once I babysat an infant and his mother offered me boxed wine
it seemed like a trap at the time but I think she was young
she bit the fruit and it grew inside her, moldy she told me

she was into army guys I didn’t tell her
they always leave because where is the father now

once I dreamt that all of the teeth in my head crumbled into my mouth
rotting out of their roots, the boulders realized their gravity
only for a moment but it was enough. today
I thought I saw you out of the corner of my eye and
have you ever stroked the outer shell of another person’s ear?

It seems a time has come

I smell the fire
before I see it, memory
captured in burning hair
once calmly collected

metal bodies spit-slick
cocoon their makers,
encasing these flesh forms
once alone, together

two columns of smoke waltz
in the horizon’s eye
a red gleam, watery
now, winking knowingly

on the highway the sky
is lazy like taffy
unwinding from itself
in the afternoon haze

there, as I pass the fire
faces wink together
blurred bodies twist bodies
dance in melted confusion

I see a glossy cheek
of course red, of course soft
(what is there to be done
in this skinless instant)

what i got when i slept w/u:

two green parakeets perched on a chandelier, the best trumpet player in the high school band (scales on scales on scales), life on a boat, a map of the subway, a fifteen-year-old boy losing his virginity in a ditch in sweden, a cat with a dumb name, long fingernails, una colombiana flaca, juice made from kale + ginger + beets + carrots + grapes, night of the living dead, hippy parents, dank weed, upper east side parents, an exercise ball, future parents, no parents, a yellow fixie w/a flip flop hub, a fascination w/mixed girls, a boy version of yourself, your bearded boyfriend, rusted grain silos, your red-headed girlfriend, a gay art film circa early 2000s shot in seattle, silver hairs, how to moisturize, how to sleep w/your eyes open, how to text message break up, how to cut open a mango, how to dislike you, how to love you, how to remember you all.

where we go

once i told you “the only thing i know for certain
is that everything dies. everything ends” but

you said “no the only thing that is really
true is that everything changes”.

we go away to a desert with squat plants
+ deer with strange faces + pitch a tent near its river.

we are peering into the mouth of a new climate.
you tilt your face upward and i know

i am in love. with yellow skies’ darkening
and armadillos rolling toward the water

with the moons in our fingernails and the sage
in our bed. with too-old wine slowly turning

the tongue black. outside i am asleep but i can see
your shape on the grass, falling in the night.