Watershed poems by Rebecca Rouse

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These are excerpts from Watershed, poems by Rebecca Rouse.

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the printing of the

final compilation,

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Venmo: ROUSErebecca

Watershed

Rebecca Rouse 2022

wa·ter·shed

/ˈwôdərˌSHed,ˈwädərˌSHed/

noun

noun: watershed; plural noun: watersheds

an area or ridge of land that separates waters flowing to different rivers, basins, or seas.
an area or region drained by a river, river system, or other body of water.

2. an event or period marking a turning point in a course of action or state of affairs.

by Rebecca Rouse

This is the first

Part.

This is the initiation.

This is the definition

Of taking shape.

Primates

- Wet nose - dry nose

-NEW WORLD -OLD WORLD

--apes --old world monkeys (tails that don’t grab)

+lesser apes +great apes

-Orangutans -Humans -Gorillas - Bonobo/Chimpanzee

Smile.

Rolling a smile in a hip socket.

A fly crawling onto my blanket

Onto my bed.

And everyone in the field

Turned to listen to the

Drums.

This is a high pressure time

Carbon bitch.

What is this fever?

Did I purchase this?

With what?

From whom?

The tension in an animal's

Hips when it is waiting, wanting,

Planning to be somewhere else.

Allow yourself to be here and

Feel things and touch your

Hair.

Allow the flaunt. Circle the drain.

Brush the mane.

My communions with writing

Are delicious. My wanting things

And hearing seeing the crash

Of my molecules against the

Rock. The flow creates a crash

That starts my heart.

A rock set against a jet

Of water. Receiving a waterfall.

Showering under a waterfall

Idealism that knocks you on

Your ass.

This soul feels like a

Mudpie.

A curious mixture of dirt

And shit. Where it’s all

Just running together.

Fear me, says the soul.

Says the mudpie.

I have no nutritious value

And i’m laced with poison

Berries.

Just a moment to remember,

Just a taste a look

And bow. Crunch beneath

The crust and mantle.

Stay away for weeks and

Drown. Drown out drown

up drown about the yolk

Of friendlies and

Bemuse the gown.

Maybe this is real

And tainted. Maybe this

Is garbage too. Maybe

We are made for bigger

Truer, golden attempts to

Be new.

Only shapeless

needs are welcome.

Toughest breeds are

On the march. The mend

And township are

Unspoken, forever sealed

Within the arch.

PATTERNS WE WOULD CALL ALIVE

The pile of dried things

you keep. Skipping the first line.

Loosening the jaw and massaging the

Sphincters breathing into the back body.

Observing things devolve and continuing

To pursue observation. Wearing the

Eyeliner. Dropping the limp dropping

Dripping a hip diddy dippy drippy

Hip drip. Wiggle waggle woogle

Demon fucking afternoon ride.

Motorcycle noises. Vroom. Too hot

To sit on it. Sit on it. Sit on it.

Everything you can come up with

To do in front of people feels

Pornographic. The universe is telling

Me everything this body.

Massage your sphincters and

Trust yourself.

Eat fruit. Live in a cave.

Come out at night.

Drop seeds and stones for the

Sun to find. Make plans

With the future friends to

Grow in a circular way

Pattern for observance observation

Of high holy days and fires

To be set to memory and music.

Growing out of control for body

Creating a network to touch

Each other. Everyone.

You have an excellent jaw line.

Said the teller.

Excellent for what?

Impressing people.

Inspiring people?

No. Impressing people.

I studied your bed for

96 hours and found

Nothing.

Those were the hours spent alone.

In the nights that you

Were there, i lie awake

And listen to you make

The breathy noises of an infant.

With my eyes closed the

figment of a goat fish

Came to me and swam

About our heads. Is this

With you always?

When it’s gone

When it’s dead wrong

When it’s long gone

And nothing can be won

Go on home and sing.

Disaster has struck.

Offer has been withdrawn.

I think keeping it together

Looks good.

I think we call it what it is

I think we back it up before it

breaks.

Revealing the circle

Breaking apart breaking forward

Away from the voices and the

Eyes. This is the open field.

This is the treeline dense

Where time overtakes information.

This is an unemployment line

So long it asks another question.

Limits, edges, boundaries, ledges

Lines in the sand. Sand.

Poignant piles of sand. I wish

the beaches were not closed.

My flower has been plucked from the

Ground. From my ground.

My ground has been plucked from

My flower.

Lately I have been given glimpses

of heaven. My heaven. Images of the place.

Its location. Its climate. The vegetation.

Images of heaven. A cloud of dust

From the other side of the world. Lit

Pink. Out in the yard where the

Vision and mind are clear. The haze over

The moon felt in the mind the heart.

She contradicts it all. She watches

Mother walk down the hallway.

Touching the stone

It comes to the

Foreground. You find

Yourself in the dim desert

Lit by an escaping

the jury. Escaping the school

Teacher.

If everything exists in the

Multiverse, then I need to focus

on opening up my channels to

Other places. I’ve been looking

For a name for a while now

I’ve been hearing a name

Indistinctly shouted in a humid

Dark. It gets stuck in the air.

Only an outline makes it to my

Lips. to my ears. I just

realized I’ll never be able

To kiss my own ear. I could

Ask you to do it.

A broken hearted clown and a mysterious

dead body

A broken hearted clown and a mysterious

dead body

Loneliness and two new things.

There is no more strength to hold

Up the weight crushing my

Chest. I wonder what will happen

To the people living in my heart when

My chest collapses. They will have

To flee as though from an earthquake

or flood. They may be crushed.

The house. The house should

Have been built better. The ground

should not have moved so much.

The people should not have built

Houses. Houses of such heavy and

dangerous materials. Thou shalt not

Lift anything over your head that

Can crush you. People should live in

Caves. And when the cave

Collapses, the earth has reclaimed

What has never left.

The wireless customer you are trying

To reach is not available. Please

Try again later.

The suns gonna come out

The disease will go away

And we’re all gonna get rich.

So some days you are an

angry river. A rapid. You make

A lot more noise. You spray

On more people. You’re foaming

At the mouth.

Add a little bit of body text

She sits with sunglasses,

Oxygen tank tubed to her nose,

And sits in a darkness

Marred with bird calls.

Who wants to buy insurance

From somebody who ain’t

Got any teeth?

I don’t want to own it.

I don’t want to cry, i don’t want your silver crusted

Moonshaped eyes to die.

Go now and voyage and

Cake the fright and by,

Don’t marry each contentment,

Keep whole. keep watch. keep dry.

But a rapid is still a river,

Has a truth and has a

Steady course. It fills all the

Crags and tells you they’re

There and tells you where

The rocks are and how far

The fall is. It only moves

Forward. It can carry, will

Carry you with it. It

Receives itself from the

Sky and from the spring.

Pushes its way up and

Out from under mountains.

I grew six feet this morning,

And in the afternoon I cut it off and put it in the ground.

Around this I built a town in the evening and

Before I go to sleep, we will hold service.

A gentle, unthreatened folded

Hand opens and is grazed.

Traced for creating a memory.

Retrieving the breath for the

moments of conjuring. Nothing

held but gifts. Recognition expand

The layout of the course

Street view to the chiefs house

Brings you to stand at the hill.

This is a wisdom of a day that i

Have not lived.

I cannot live today in

Tomorrow’s light, and i certainly

Don’t intend to when the

Heartaches you serve me today are

So stinging and sweet. What

Great loss of tenderness. The

Air deciding to leave my

Lungs and abandon my

Sunken chest as I lay waiting

For reprieve. I should certainly

Stop struggling before tomorrow’s

Light reaches my face and

My tears of strain will be

Dried in moonlight. This is

The stillness, the worry of

The middle of the night, the

Gasp that follows the thought.

This is turbulence at 37,000

Feet, and somehow still living

under your shadow.

You won't believe it.

That bitch is still here.

Maybe something new.

Maybe something wanted.

Maybe something torn in

half and dripping drooping

tapping against the door.

Blown about a bluster cannon,

jump off the roof or don’t

Trust all your charms

and trimmers, growing

weary miles across town.

Thank you for reading!

These are initial excerpts of the forthcoming hardcopy compilation of poems in 2022.

Please consider making a donation to help fund printing!

Venmo: ROUSErebecca

Rebecca Rouse 2022