Jameson Fitzpatrick
Once I wove flowers into his bicycle spokes.

I wrote PLEASE on the wall in large letters.

I wrote letters.

Many times I made a scene.

Once I cast a spell.

I told him I could keep him beautiful.

I chased after him in the street, calling his name.

I was always It.

I showed up at the party knowing he would be there and went home with him.

I showed up at the party not knowing he would be there and went home with him.

I texted twice more after it was clear he didn’t want to sleep with me again.

I learned about sympathetic magic in class, then got his signature tattooed on my ass.

I followed him onto the subway platform.

I followed him on every platform.

I told him I would die without him.

I died.

That was the worst thing.

No, coming back was the worst thing.

Haunting him.

I wore a disguise.

Sang the Stevie Nicks song right in his face.

You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.

I paid for it.

Slept with his friend.

Several of them.

Claimed squatter’s rights.

I waited by the door.

I wrapped my arms around him.

I turned him into a tree.

I climbed.

Carved our initials into the bark.

I jumped.

Where I landed I didn’t know the language.

I repeated his name in a mirror until he appeared.

I broke the mirror trying to get to him.

I broke two.

I turned him into a flower.

I turned him into a pig.

I cooked him breakfast.

I did the dishes.

I learned the language.

I devised a plot.

I devised a plot of such sophistication he’d never suspect.

I stole his passport.

I made everyone he loved love me.

Once I told the truth about everything.

I lied.

I was extravagant.

I was simple.

I was a good piece of furniture.

I was his favorite shirt.
from the book PRICKS IN THE TAPESTRY / Birds, LLC 
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The title of this poem comes from one of the DSM's diagnostic criteria for Borderline Personality Disorder—as I first encountered it in Susanna Kaysen's memoir "Girl, Interrupted," long before my own hospitalization at 22. Years later, while attempting to account for that period of instability, I was struck anew by the syntactic ambiguity and poetic potential of the modifier "real or imagined." In actual fact, the DSM phrasing, at least as far back as 1994, is simpler, and so misses the poetry: "Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment." 

Jameson Fitzpatrick on "Frantic Efforts to Avoid Abandonment, Real or Imagined"
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"I try to keep all versions of manuscripts just so I can see how the poems changed. And sometimes I will sort of Frankenstein old work into newer work, or take a poem that didn’t quite work and reach into it and lift a stanza, or even just a line. For example, the poem 'old confession & new' from Homie is really three older poems mashed together."
 
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"In difference to the traditional lyric model, where any 'inconsistencies' make the artwork suspect, Martell argues that it is these very rifts that open the poem up, throw the reader into a 'real' of artistic encounter. I would say that Olsson’s book is a 'rifted' lyric. It’s a lyric but it goes on too long, it confuses who is reader and who is writer, who is angel and who is human. It even confuses the angel with a dress worn as a teenager."
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