Mike Rosen - Erasure

Erasure
Erasure
Erasure
Erasure
Erasure
Erasure
Erasure
By Mike Rosen
“the illdefined”
www.TheNewConfusion.com
for A J J L & H
Acknowledgements
Sarah, Mom and Dad because, even at its best, gravity doesn’t catch as well as you do.
Amanda and Janine because you spoke and let me listen.
Odetta, Bennett, Corey, Jason and Jamaal because the first line isn’t the only family I’ve got
nor the only home.
No poem is written alone,

so to all those who gave me the time of day and loved me with red ink, thank you.
ENGL 316. Ryan, S-O invents the sky.
Elizabeth Willis.
James Thomas Stevens.
Dad (again) for the books.
Josh for the songs.

Andrew for the stories.
Mel for the shoves.
Davy for whatever it is you do.
Boulder for your time and place.

Connecticut for your winters.
New York for your benches and that lamppost in Riverside that hasn’t stopped flickering.
Process
binge binge binge binge binge binge binge binge binge

binge binge binge binge binge binge binge binge
Page | 3
binge binge binge binge binge binge purge
Page | 4
Poster for Winter in America
I do not remember what color her eyes were

just the space behind them
seen floating dawn upon some symbol:
like a sunfish or a ruptured casket
– bearing the indigenous home again.
The space behind them:

tunnels that dove through the tissue,
the burnt hemlines of her reverie,
and the frayed edges of a scar
left from the night you lined her stomach with linoleum
and told her to smile
tunnels dust-laced the vesicles of a past she wasn’t old enough to possess
and caused a rhythm in her chest, like salsa
better done fast, and smiling
and you told her to smile,
didn’t you?
When you took her county fair countenance

and made your symbol, your
little girl
with baby skin, unscathed
by the world you knew you were bringing her into
to face, like it was some bright-eyed wonder of a snow day
some summer field swing set
some sea crash sand castle
you hid the truth,

posted her on poster board,
said it was an honor, and told her to smile
as if we
were the protected delicacy of non-native shrubbery
in deer-fenced gardens
–but it just don’t look like rain today, captain.
Now, it’s winter

in America
and your fair is over:
the posters taken down
the poster girl, left to bring your past into something called tradition
but this future is not warm.
Page | 5
There is no chicken wire, deer fence, sea castle.
There is just winter, in America, the crash, and the chapped lips
and that face you said was perfect,
for your poster,
that day when you told her:
keep smiling.
* *
I think of my younger cousin:

she is Charleston 70 degree beach day with a 3 split tongue twisting Luxembourg,
French, and English
with European narrow street red scooter flair
and a dash of Californian don't give a fuck
her eyes fat yellow moons over dusk oceans
reigning peace from the bright piece of her iris
–the light spot
that turns red
in amateur photographs.
She is photographed often:
photo shoot shot fired for paid hire
offer status bags stuffed,
freshly filled with worn wish lists:
Ugg brand boots she shares
over plastic wrapped dinner tables
serving barbecue pork
on Passover.
Today her dress swirls orange flowers out of summer-coming dance patterns,
her hair curls sea lions out of beach shell shore lines
– she was the dream
from tattered story book America fairy tale:
back when we had heroes, rolled them into scrolls deemed declarative
and fought tyrants
and went west
and dreamed big, and bigger, and free
and broke ground, told progression,
and protected the sacred, and the innocent, and the lovers
she was the dream

but they make her its mascot
whenever they tell her:
keep smiling.
* *
Page | 6
Keep smiling. Keep smiling.
The only thing she said she was ever good at
was smiling, for you,
so she smiled. But it got cold,
and when she couldn’t smile, she laughed harder,
and made herself
in to a smile
that bruised its cheeks on my lips
and blackened its eyes with my words.
So she crawled back to the tunnels

found answers tumbling up pipes she rolled of dollar bills,
and the pipes
led to the tunnels
led to the tissues.
It hit with the speed of darkness

a sleepy Connecticut sunfall from broken telephones
the echoes of hollow point mortality
and the faceless rocks
she ground over coffee tables
into perfect, snortable rows
like the farmers at your fair.
It hit again. Right between the teeth,

a bruise in her nostrils the cause of no blunt force trauma
piercing the stained membrane God once designed as armor
destroying a body was okay, at least,
it gave her reason to smile.
But that smile,

born in a camouflage at the bottom of her cranium
it wove through her wiring,
pouring into ribs, spreading through lungs
till it shined across her face.
But that feeling,

that feeling that is supposed to come with the smile,
its simultaneous inspiration and by-product, that feeling
Page | 7
That feeling,
never made it back through the stained membranes,
never made it
to her heart.
But you told her to smile.
And I
I don’t remember what color her eyes were.
Page | 8
In Memory of Spirit 1
You have built this.

I stood and watched
played along across diamond smiles tossing softballs into spring
bumping off the tips of
:: branches
:: infant laughter
:: a deep breath
:: not realizing
[what we were]
:: building
a man made
museum of her
human body,
the grandeur of mortality

of acquiescing one’s child [hood]
excerpted from broken programming

streaming reality
into living room sacred America
the denizens of Abstraction
tacking human taxidermy

behind rosewood.
1
Transit-related emerge and sees often result from loss of [operator] control.
Page | 9
The magazine
measuring Michelangelo out
of a single hair,
the period of an eye blink needed
for proper beauty. 2
You burned disaster

into the space where ego should have grown,
curated her
self-conscious,
divining the imperfection of
every crevice
those pants should fit

those eyes should sink
that hair should fly
that’s just the problem with you, Alice:
you are.
Always
too tall or too small [elephants or skeletons]
all the people around
you are fake.3
2
On icy roads a car’s tires may lose traction causing the vehicle’s rear end to spin out, sending car and driver hurtling at sixty miles per hour.
3
In this situation: remain. [calm.] turn the wheel gently, in the direction of the spin out until you regain control.
Page | 10
The black lines of a coloring book
colored with permanent markers
they built those books with cheap paper. Pages were
grey,
bled
the colors
told a story we could all see
plainly enough
but these are the kinds of discoveries

made in white rooms
with white cloaks
and fancy white paper that never bleeds dark black ink
– eye could see,

I did,
and I did nothing ( These are examples of leaving out )
but wish them beautiful again.
[it is so easy now to forget,

not as easy as it was to ignore]
Now, every word

must conjure.
I think: Do not mince words.

The sun flower sutra,
bleeding unicorns out of a garden hose
a note for a letter to a person you once loved [inexplicably]
without bounds
Page | 11
that will be sealed
but never addressed,
the object within
snowballing significance,
waiting
on the right moment,
which will pass
without occurring
Do not waste a word,

there’s hardly enough
lining to sustain normal brain function
or anything normal, really.
There’s no fat on her bones,

it’s too painful for her to
sit on the ground…
There’s a point where things fall apart

like patience,
like patients,
like the ability to ignore something obvious,
elephants living room

skeletons closet
Failing to angle the light properly

we mouthed silence into vowels
between ribs
she starts, as if to speak
crop fires simmer on the horizon
and there’s not enough lining.4
4
To remain calm, remember: regaining control is a possibility. It is also: an option.
Page | 12
There’s a rustle in the leaves
now make believe is mouthing off again.
Many adolescents, because of their stage of cognitive

development, lack the psychological capacity to
express abstract concepts such as self-awareness or
feelings
You needn’t teach me

echoes of a history I can’t understand
history whispered into wind
by turn key cartographers
whose made maps were flawed
and thus, I have not been there, [to the dis-ease]
cannot be there, cannot even
find it. Don’t want to.
Want to hold close, chest skin soft

Wish: cure
was her(e), not
in black page place, where words cannot go
wish it was easy, like her saying:
―love me like a warrior

till you make me feel beautiful.‖
My body won’t leave a miracle.

It will be there in the morning
I cannot make you feel.
These words not spoken
hoped – as if arms could cure disease
so nothing happens
nothing is said
( …and the last silence reveals the lining )
Page | 13
Suddenly, there’s a notion
like the sense of a train coming,
metal and rust and sparks sanded from simplicity,
burials on bitten lips licked by flame
how real it all seems [elephants and skeletons]
when you never look down
into her eyes, and real eyes5
the gravity
of relevance
(One begins to forget that

one is
looking inside. )
She should have eaten two thousand eight hundred calories

but no one is watching her
so she’ll eat just five hundred
and I shiver in a cold that doesn’t exist

this is a disease
and recognize that she is remembered
as something categorical
serious effects :: biological,

:: psychological
:: sociological
morbidity
:: and mortality.
5
When was the last time control presented itself as subject to choice?
Page | 14
Recognized as something:
potentially irreversible
:: loss of dental enamel

:: structural brain changes
:: pubertal delay
:: growth retardation
…she starved herself back into childhood
deficiencies :: calcium
:: vitamin D
:: folate
:: vitamin B12
these are forms of control:

PERSONAL, PHYSICAL, SELF,
MIND, BODY, TIME , POLITICAL,
SUBSTANCE , SECULAR, COMPLETE , UNDER,
OUT OF …
:: body temperature (92 degrees)
:: autonomy
:: self-concept
:: self-esteem
:: capacity for intimacy
Page | 15
Something categorical:
outpatient, intensive outpatient
partial hospitalization, inpatient
hospitalization,
residential treatment,
cognitive behavioral therapy,

hormone replacement therapy.
Inpatient treatment becomes necessary

when outpatient treatment fails.
…their daughter’s health is a commodity they must purchase
Short-term nasogastric feeding

may be necessary.
Lack of care, or insufficient treatment

can result in chronicity with major medical complications,
social or
psychiatric distress or
even death.
… you could see the outlines of her organs through her skin
A gutted landing, like spot, like empty plate

poised in shaking fingers
of high resolution image that fills this picture book
documenting anorexia and bulimia in thirteen year old girls
I do not know this disease.
But I know those. Those are bones. Those are the bones that form knuckles.
We call this death, disfigured, emaciated, horror, heaped. Also, colonized, infected, immobile, fear.
Page | 16
STOP.
( These wounds are me. I

cannot let you live your life this way,
and at the same time I am slurped into it,
falling on top of you and falling with you. )
FREE F ALL, NOUN.

The motion of an object under the influence of
gravity alone, there being neither thrust nor
appreciable drag acting on it; The state of being in
motion under such conditions.
Hadley asks if she scared me
( and it’s like trying to stop an ocean )
I don’t like watching my friends disappear,

most are not magicians,
was never scared of you,
seen this trick before,
plus, sometimes the edge is a creature of heaven, you might just find yourself.
But still scared

of course, I was scared
FREE F ALL, NOUN.
The state or fact of undergoing a rapid
or un-controlled decline.
– it’s scary, [exhale]

and I love you.
Page | 17
How real it all seems,
when you never look down:
at the flint tint pages

she flipped
their bodies
oiled, glistening
Roman gods
piled between thighs of fresh pressed indigo
limbs lingering over marble chests
and jaw lines that stalk dark
pages glossed in cheap ink
and scars of yesterday’s headlines,
tilting hegemony from a chalkboard—
( But it is your landscape, the proof that you are there )
There are wonders here.

Come and let us listen.
My mind wanders.
I am told: stay focused. Do not lose control. So,
I am four pills.
Sterile yellows, blues, whites, pinks,
the vague tasks assigned to each
each supposed to do something
each supposed to help.
We are never ready, it seems,

for the body to change.
Page | 18
In the silence,
I recall:
I remember when Julie started bringing her meals to school with her:
cheese and crackers and grapes. Tupperware rectangles kept fresh in
backpacks with brand names like North Face. When she opened
them, the air would escape, reeking of mother’s cooking. Also,
insecurity and uncertainty.
Her food always looked better than that of cafeteria buffet plastic. I
remember the other kids could not resist. They asked for bites. She
could not resist. She was happy to share.
All of the food Julie ever ate was inside those containers. Sealed, air
tight, zip-locked innocence. Grapes and celery nibbled between
cool table coffee talk politics.
I recall: bodies
(dwindled into starshine like unwanted memories. )
* * *
I’m having difficulty in starting to do things. I seem to have to have given up.
I have stopped trying.
I feel paralyzed.
I feel numb all over—
Page | 19
( I thought that if I could put it all down, that would be one way.
Something to stand in their place. Not the truth but
your self. )
*** Certain minds were borrowed for this piece; they include John Ashbery, Mark
Nowak, Common Market, The Kickdrums and some assorted news and science
articles on eating disorders. Their contributions are usually denoted with italics,
Ashbery’s appear with both italics and parentheses.
Page | 20
Sheets
Her sheets were empty when I came home from the hospital
which was not surprising
because these sheets
were never used for sleeping
were never made for sleeping
these sheets were not made for sleeping
were made to cradle falling porcelain from kitchen floors

the empty plate, poised in shaking fingers
of the high resolution images that fill this picture book
documenting anorexia and bulimia in thirteen year old girls
I do not know this disease

but I know those, those are bones,
those are the bones that form fingers,
we call them disfigured, emaciated,
human piles.

were made to be tied together and dropped
out of windows
like ladders so she could escape
then stream behind her as she whirled

barefoot skies dancing hurricanes
out of Saturday afternoons

were made to be used as slings
made for gauze wrapping her frozen injuries
made to satin siphon the blood from wounds I couldn’t close
made to keep her warm
because when a body drops to 92 degrees
it doesn’t feel like August
it’s too painful for her to sit on the ground and
terms like “hormone replacement therapy”
imply that she has starved herself back into childhood
these sheets were meant to be used for scrolls, for story books,
for stories, for the story already scripted into individual ribs
something, about bike rides, and sunsets
prom dates and fairy tales, first kisses, frog princes
and teddy bears, but no
Page | 21
these sheets were not made for comfort
were made to simulate a sense of control
in a thread count that matched her daily caloric intake
a sense of control
in a world where she had none
so she made her own

in a sense that manifests at breakfasts she never ate
at lunch when her side smiles handed out cupcakes
at dinner tables with family when she did nothing
but hold food in front of her face
did nothing but hold food in front of her face

just to prove
that she could resist
this is not how people were meant to exist

is something that I could not fix
something that no body can fix
this is a disease
this is a virus
this is what causes double vision in adolescence
and hallucinogenics in pre-pubescence
why misogyny and cosmetics
should be considered types of eugenics
this is not the last breath of a coward who enforces the death sentence
this is the death sentence
did you know that in the developed world

twenty percent of people diagnosed with an eating disorder
die
twenty percent equals one out of five
I have five friends who are diagnosed anorexics
I do not know
which one this poem
is for.
I do not know
to whom those sheets
belong.
Page | 22
To You
What if time, not

escaped, but rather
stepped sideways until we
caught up and rode

into some epic eternity
we’ll mark love by midnight
but, come mourning, understand to be suede shoe snowfall?
Won’t we be special then?

Won’t you have your pleasantry then?
Your Sunday coffee-lip crossword,

dangle leg and ‘ruly eyed
Your picket fence Piccadilly over orange moons
Your crew-cutted varsity leather
but that, of course, would involve being stationary,

a static role
like that of an overcome thespian,
a more secure sense of self.
People become symbols of times and places

you are the mascot of that time:
the floral crematorium built over Broadway, that me
that existed there,
that moment,
held in the weakest strain of dark matter connectives
held imminent, silver screen of a snowflake
as a time we’ve passed through, since you:
the last lozenge, the empty bottle of Acetaminophen,

lodged in the stomach of an 18 year old girl
collapsed under the small spattering drops
of a rain showered dormitory
the virus befalling her, vision doubling thru your bathroom mirror
seeing, but wanting, the palm lines
gleaned from the sides of buses
and pages, fingered crimson with deceit.
Indexing her esophagus,
believing that skinny is a compliment.
Page | 23
You have already told us all your stories; we are waiting for them to end
the record spins silent,
stirring its rhetoric from the needles
we used to stitch the patchwork
onto your daughter’s frame.
When we found her trembling December into porcelain tile.
You are not a game anyone wishes to play again.
Erasure
by Mike Rosen
mike@TheNewConfusion.com
Page | 24

Mike Rosen - Erasure

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Erasure

Amanda and Janine because you spoke and let me listen.

No poem is written alone,

ENGL 316. Ryan, S-O invents the sky.

Josh for the songs.

Boulder for your time and place.

binge binge binge binge binge binge binge binge binge

I do not remember what color her eyes were

The space behind them:

When you took her county fair countenance

you hid the truth,

Now, it’s winter

I think of my younger cousin:

she was the dream

So she crawled back to the tunnels

It hit with the speed of darkness

It hit again. Right between the teeth,

But that smile,

But that feeling,

But you told her to smile.

I don’t remember what color her eyes were.

You have built this.

bumping off the tips of

the grandeur of mortality

excerpted from broken programming

tacking human taxidermy

You burned disaster

those pants should fit

all the people around

you are fake.3

but these are the kinds of discoveries

– eye could see,

[it is so easy now to forget,

Now, every word

I think: Do not mince words.

Do not waste a word,

There’s no fat on her bones,

There’s a point where things fall apart

elephants living room

Failing to angle the light properly

Many adolescents, because of their stage of cognitive

You needn’t teach me

Want to hold close, chest skin soft

―love me like a warrior

My body won’t leave a miracle.

(One begins to forget that

She should have eaten two thousand eight hundred calories

and I shiver in a cold that doesn’t exist

serious effects :: biological,

:: loss of dental enamel

…she starved herself back into childhood

these are forms of control:

:: body temperature (92 degrees)

:: capacity for intimacy

cognitive behavioral therapy,

Inpatient treatment becomes necessary

…their daughter’s health is a commodity they must purchase

Short-term nasogastric feeding

Lack of care, or insufficient treatment

A gutted landing, like spot, like empty plate

( These wounds are me. I

FREE F ALL, NOUN.

Hadley asks if she scared me

( and it’s like trying to stop an ocean )