Tracy Dimond




There is a concern that poems

are not logical sequences

like neutral proofs.

Look at organisms that fake banality:

Sliced bread is not a neutral

benchmark for greatness.

Cells divided long before blades were added to the equation.

Flowers are not neutral.

They open for the sun and make oxygen farts.

Eating almonds while drinking

almond milk is not neutral.

It may be a form of cannibalism.


Are you a big pile of organic mush?


Bodies are not neutral.

PH is only neutral

if it is in balance.

Colors are not neutral,

everyone has a emotion painted into a hue.

Their can be neutral,

but sexuality is not neutral.

How about heterosexuals come out

before anyone has to say anything.

This tan is not neutral; I’ve spent years with it.

Where are my crow’s feet?

Age is not neutral.

It contains perceived credibility.




Open space is owned by someone or something.

Corporations are not neutral

they have charters

then develop office policies

and insurance programs

that change your behavior.

Diet Coke is not neutral

when it slides down your throat

or sits next to Pepsi.

Loving you less is neutral

when you’re already looking ahead.


Take a look at embedded assumptions.


The net is not neutral.

Activity is not neutral.

Activism is not neutral.

Every activist should talk responsibility

stopping and making traffic.

Memory is not neutral.

History is even less neutral,

which is only clear in biography,

but even more clear in autobiography.


Which story prompts your day?


Getting into a car is not neutral

when a speaker directs it.

Survey the people that force it every day,

then force getting dressed.

An outfit is never neutral.

My performance is not neutral.

Wash that weird air out of your head.

Time Is Spent Wishing To Be Breaking News



I’m looking for a system to buy into.

Raise the volume for paid programming.

How many special updates

until a broadcast becomes meaningless?


This may or may not be unsubstantiated:

I’m faking my death in time for the holidays.

People won’t recognize me, but they will scream

my name. Time to admit—

I am terrified / I am ready.


Follow strict guidelines to transmit ideas.

The Internet is a case study of obsessions:


Everything has been claimed.

Everything has been published.

Everything has been resealed.


Instead of logging on,

I eat hardboiled eggs and marvel at the yellow yokes.

Will you take context seriously?

I’m not okay, I promise. Smiling is an easy mask to wear.


My nerves mount around people who seem to cope.

It’s the kind of day everyone else does it better.

It as in leaving the house.

When did leaving the house become so hard?


Hairspray doesn’t keep me in line.

Split ends don’t cure themselves.

Baths cure my knots,

but paying for energy feels wasteful,

like live coverage of an empty ocean.

Direct mail catalogues are insidious

because each new pillow promises self-actualization.


I don’t want to be told anything.

I want to feel the sun in my palms,

fingers stretched to the wind—

so I’m looking for a place with light, windows that open,

and roof access because I like to tan

and pretend I live in the skyline.

My Idea of Romance is Death



Take time to hide or reveal in the daily art of getting ready. There is a type of landslide called creep, for its movement and personality. I feel a kinship with nature today.


Strip down to show nothing, then curl my hair because downward spiral! Highlights are planned effervescence. I take long romantic walks alone because wine ages better than condoms.


Happiness exists in the morning. It wanes in the afternoon with my self-control. Whatever—tans should be rationed for free. To find sun, I climb trees that weep because our bones will never touch like roots.


Entomb ideas in skin. These tattoo guns are hard to wield, but how else will we remember names? When asked why anyone would practice self-destruction, soil says it’s only a test.


What else scares you? Try to find some gravity. The best advice I’ve heard lately? Run while you can. I cannot be everything, so I am nothing.


TRACY DIMOND co-curates Ink Press Productions. Her newest chapbook, I Want Your Tan, will be released in May by Ink Press Productions. She is also the author of Grind My Bones Into Glitter, Then Swim Through The Shimmer (NAP 2014) and Sorry I Wrote So Many Sad Poems Today (Ink Press 2013).