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Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Poetry By Anti-Heroin Chic Founder James Diaz

James Diaz is the founding editor of the literary arts & music journal Anti-Heroin Chic. heroinchic.weebly.com/ His work has appeared in Cheap Pop Lit, Ditch, HIV Here & Now, Foliate Oak and Epigraph. He struggles with Dissociative Identity Disorder, but after a lifetime of being labelled Bi-Polar he is now living medicine free for over five years. He's slowly starting to be able to feel his own skin again. Instead of three pills a day he writes three poems a day. He lives in upstate New York.


Lovely, Defective

say life
and everywhere
so little of it

part / parcel
shrieking
the emptier the refrain
the fuller the form

wrist scars 
and hideaways
from before
the war
and here
and now
the body reaches its lowest 
loneliest moment

frozen tundra
there's no god talking back
with wind or jealousy
only dark on top
of darker

what more did you want?
bionomy
bite marks
when love turns violent

half a day's travel
toward nothing at all?

something else?

Tell us all
what it is
we're missing?



Carry The Impossibility and Add It To The Four

I know how much you hate it
the status updates
the roving eye 
hand uncoordinated
and winter deep inside everything

call your people
tell them you've forgotten how to smile
and the scar itching
but what does it know

something happened
and can't unhappen

like defusing a cognitive bomb
Bion's unknowable aching
even my teeth know how bad it's gonna get
and midnight cuts in
the table missing a chair
missing my mind
and so, so much more.



Everywhere I Went I Found Something Missing

and I couldn't tell you what it was
it took me months to get a full sentence out
and when I finally did
I asked you to repeat the words
till I could hear myself through you
till I could trust the language again.



It May Look Like Unraveling 

I used to see things that weren't there. Like Plath I was very adept at trying to die. It was my calling. Almost a life time ago. Almost. I remember the kindness of a man named Vince who held my hand as we walked the long cold halls toward a room with no windows, single metal bed and thick parachute straps, the walls were like sheets of iron blocking out the sun, the cameras, I thought then, were the laughing eyes of a cruel god. "It'll be alright" I remember Vince telling me, "I'll be here 24 hours from now, I ain't goin' nowhere." Even in my darkest hours there were men and women who kept me above the water line, for two years I lived in a place with no light but that which hid itself in other people, in extended hands, the touch and feel of someone's skin reminding me that I was in my own. And there were these words a night nurse once said to me: "It may look like an unraveling, but you are somehow being born." Impossible pain, I now know, lends itself to something that is worth waiting around for; the rest of the story. Maybe a little or a lot more pain, maybe a little or a lot more life.

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