Poetry

I threw away my phone today
to give myself a break,
but even still I lived online
through little posts I’d made

So I scrubbed those posts and moved away
to find a trailer home,
but even still I lived in minds
of people I’d once known

So I found them all, and drowned them, too,
in pools of piss and tar,
but even still I lived in PeePaw’s
beaten-down old car

So I blew it up, and all the rest,
and shot myself away
from anyone who’d ever see
to just keep things that way

But even still, I lived in time–
some spectre of a man
who’d struggled to keep to himself
and found no easy plan

So I found a little rip in space
and tore it fully whole,
and finally I lived no more
‘til Heaven reaped my soul

So I begged St. Pete, give me a rest!
Please leave me with no trace!
But the saddest little saccharine grin
migrated to his face.

“You will live once more,” he said,
while stifling a snicker,
but as soon as I began to smile
he branded me a sinner!

I named my beetle after you.
I found it with five legs, outside and
remembered you liked beetles, and,
well, I named it after you.

Its memory is surprising–
it circles round ‘most every day
from its… beetle ‘ventures, whatever they do.
I guess it really isn’t mine, but
I feed it and I
named it after you.

It came back with four legs, last week
which made me feel a little better,
that beetles with four legs can still
remember and get back here.

I’ve thought of you a lot, I guess
…because of that beetle.
It plays its part well, and I can almost–

well, I tore off its leg yesterday
because I named it after you.
I watched it limp into the yard
and hoped it would get stepped on
since I fucking named it after you!

I prayed that it would die since I
can’t really pray for its health,
and I can’t tear off more legs without
mom seeing.

It did come back, this morning with
two good legs and a stub and
I thought of killing it, eating it,
to at least give it some purpose
since beetles can’t grow legs,
but instead I watched it
frown at me
and calmly walk away.

Well, I won’t tell you that it’s nothing
but I’ll tell you it ain’t much.
I lost five ounces of my spirit,
just to stay in touch.

It’s gott’n awful dry here
underneath that hung head sun,
‘n my friends done gone and leapt away
to melt for sometin’ fun.

I knows that I’m degenrit
but I ain’t got nun’ to prove,
‘cuz proof talks wit’ the Devil’s tongue
‘n he owe me my front tooth.

Well, I won’t tell you notin’s good
but I ain’t nary seen the moon
and my MREs are long gone stale
since it’s been hard to chew.

You done implicated too,
since you read these little words,
‘n I hope at least I die real slow
so I can ‘least sell you some hurt.

In a flash of sober ecstasy,
I write to you this poem–
revolution brews in the French press
that I guess I left on at home!

I’d like to tell you about my day
but I don’t know if you’ll listen
considering your recent condition,
so I’ll keep it quick, no whistling bells,
no jingle-jangles or villanelles–
I woke this morning chewing iron
just like our friends in New York City
and marched to the bus with such a gait
that God himself was feeling snippy–

but never mind, that’s not the point–
I made my way to work
and saw on line your recent stint
and lost myself in plastic corks…
A homeless man had looked at me–
I guess he must have known
that my house might be on fire,
but I’ve plenty change my own.

But anyway, I thought to call
but couldn’t find the time
so in this year of self-destruction
I give no thing sublime–
just heed my plea, we stick together
us anorexics and coffee-makers,
kids of Love and burnt-out Quakers,
please don’t hurt yourself when you remember
through homeless men of undue splendor,
we’re American Born with fine degrees
and nothing will ever hurt us!

He is dying and you are late to work.
You once knew yourself as caring,
but your care leapt far away
when you worked five hours overtime
and didn’t get the pay.
He will be gone soon.
He has plenty left to say.
You can mourn him at the register,
if you find some time today.

You cried a lot this morning.
He was dying one room over.
He is dying and you are late to work.
His service knows no order.
He gifted you his wilted rose,
which your hand barely grazes,
as you pine for pain in time card fraud,
hidden in dry places.

His funeral will be tragic
because you’ll be late to work,
and you can’t afford the lip-service
but you’ll pay him with your words.
He tried at once to talk to you
but you sighed and tapped your feet
because the boss today’s a stickler
and his death is yet unseen.

You felt a little sad today
and so you wrote a poem
about how even though you don’t have work,
he’s dying in the other room.

The room is filled with purple hues,
Bluetooth speakers and flavored booze,
and your Doctor’s in the corner
chatting up a freshman girl.

Peel back his scalp and find
no ghosts or thoughts divine–
just the little pitter-patter
of an ambling musing mind.

He will masturbate tomorrow
with his left, right, left, right hand
and you will fail to find attraction
as his heart creaks and expands.

He will see no God or glory
and you’ll pick at his dead skin
which will flake off in dull patterns
and rebuke his well-kept sin.

You forsake his layered point of view
only several levels deep,
informed by tired professors
and a ten year old degree,
yet you fear not this doctored Doctor–
you know not his purple hues,
because this Doctor saved your life
in a white coat divorced from you.

Rest easy tonight when you remember,
through übermenschen with exotic splendor,
my leathered heart is never quite so tender
as when I think of you.

The voice of God resounds in hollow
caverns in my mind, but follows
like a limping dog, through sorrow–
each night it follows you.

A certain angle I brushed upon
tangents its way through echelons
from years and years, casts on and on
an angle felt of you.

And I do find it hard to remember,
the mist of time spares not one sender,
but that ancient message of ancient benders–
it makes me think of you.

Have not an ounce of fear–
I’m here, we’re here!
Those feral beasts will die by our command,
by faux diplomas and callused hands!

It’s been a long few lifetimes for the lumpenbourgeoisie,
c’est la vie, c’est la vie,
but the new revolution lives by one strong decree–
lettered by friends JFK and E.P.!

The blood of a scholar
weighs much less than his ink,
as claim all good single mothers
with dishes in their sinks,
and the Dadas in Zürich
paint a beautiful spell
for the one-lingual preachers
who daydream of hell.
My friends Thompson and Molly
send their reluctant regards
and wax unfettered child
with no books, pens, or gauze!

So I claim once again,
have not one ounce of fear–
after all, I’m still living, with blue glasses quite queer,
in a blaze with Sankara and a clergyman’s cheer!
Our lives aren’t so simple, but we’ll dabble again
and find fine dancing tables and tonics and gin–
why, if we’re quite lucky, we’ll forget how to speak
but until then we’ll write, c’est la vie, c’est la vie.

Love a little less, next time,
love not the willows in the yard;
love less this all-destructive world
who speaks with open arms.

Love not your long-forgotten home
whose ghosts know not your name;
love less the art you knew so well
who leapt that leap of shame.

Love less this room you live in now,
with peeling walls and hues of green;
love not its wabi-sabi flow,
seductive as it seems.

Forget the nameless butterfly
who blinked when you were small;
love not its wings of ivory and
mandibles of God–

In fact, love not this broken mirror,
love not my old man’s scorn;
love less my little words of pain–
–instead, perhaps, love more.

Alright, faggot, I live in you!
I live in your head, natürlich, but–
your eyes, arms, hands, whatever,
kidneys, livers, hearts and minds–
I live in you!
“Ceci n’est pas üne pipe,” I know, but–
Let’s destroy our bodies
and wax Thompson all night, except we’re missing the glasses, and–
oh, My God! Did you feel that!
The Good Word!

I have found myself afflicted with that
wretchedness of existence
that killed Althusser’s wife and…
and you don’t believe a word!
And I LIVE in you!
Dear God!

But I’m not really sick, am I?
Or you’d be sick too!
Or are you??
Lord, I’m coming down now–
up, down, directionally insane,
Dear God, Lord, He caught the
Spirit der Dickinson and–
who are you, God, Lord??
Do I live in you, too?!

My species-being essence,
alienated manifesto, whatever,
is too wordy for you, okay?
Okay, faggot?
But it lives in you, too!
Ha!
Feel that burden, my friend, because it won’t leave you!
You have found yourself in my condition…
once or twice, maybe.
Can I tell you a secret?
You live in me, too…

And maybe I’ll do you one, kay?
I mean, you’ll be me one day–
Dear God!
I think He lives in me!
And God must live in me, too!
Why, we might play Kemal
if only I had my fez to burn!

And look, I–
I’m sorry, You, and you–
I know you’re scared of me
but I’m scared of me too,
and I live in you!
And You!
“Schweigen Sie bitte, um etwas Besseres zu bauen!”
What kind of Eliot-faced ogre are you?
I don’t speak your kurzed language!
Lord, last time I piped myself behind (Y)our eyes
I nearly vomited on that spitting image of me–Imagine That!
OKAY!

Let’s just say–
I’m tired of undoing ourselves, okay?!
Because the doing is so much more fun!
And you’re lucky, you know
because I can do myself anything–
and you can only do Me!
Imagine that!
We couldn’t kill that damned American dream–
C’est la vie, que sera, sera–
but I offer You and Ginsberg
and my friends at 27 Rue de Fleurus,
this longitudinal platitude,
and a nicer pillow to sleep on!
They live in me, too, I’m afraid,
(except all the bad parts)–
I’ll reproduce the conditions of your existence
and let that ancient wave wash me tonight!
Just watch me, faggot!
Stand the test of time–but, I can’t, You can’t stand–the–
Like Sebastian’s Faux in the Snow, we’ll never eat again…
and I can’t remember any more names.
Let’s just–
oh, God. Let’s have a drink.
Happy Birthday.

[sic]

The callused hides that wrap around his feet
quite aptly mimic the worn leather boots
that have walked him five thousand miles
or more.
They are not impressive organisms, no.

His legs are meaty
and raw,
and dutifully carry two hundred odd pounds
of flesh and black jeans
until their knees may buckle one last time.
Some simple levers, rigorously trained
in the up-and-down motion
that have calibrated, to the millimeter, their paths
yet days in advance
and get no credit at all!
But they are not impressive organisms, no.

His spine extends upward with a curve
with crude branches to protect his engine
pumping bile.
It is ragged and slow after decades of abuse,
but through clogged pipes and frayed electrical signals,
it forgives him.
It was once an impressive organism.

His hands rest at his waist,
who like any good machines,
appear to act autonomously.
Truly, when these hands wax Creator,
they will kick into lives of their own
and solve most any problem with little thought
and dirty nails.
But they are not impressive organisms!

And dully topping his spine is, of course,
trying to contain its excitement,
an idle mind!
And it has spun five million times or more
and maneuvered these simple machines
to every corner of the world.
And it has found beauty in all kinds of things,
like pain!
Oh, sweet pain!
The destruction of these machines–
My God! How Intoxicating!
Yet… in the sheer ecstasy of Ironic fervor,
of pain and release,
and of self-actualization,
I have found that despite our bond,
despite its slimy tendrils,
and despite its feeling pretty,
this is not an impressive organism.

And at the end of our little tour
I must look his slumped body over one last time
until I have found the simplest machine of all–
oh, there you are!
His simplest machines, who–
although pale,
although scarred,
although hairless,
although sinful,
although skinny and dotted,
although they will accomplish nothing,
although marred canvasses for idle minds,
and although they will never forgive him–
will serve him every day
until he feels pretty again.
By God do they appear, to me, as impressive organisms.

At 8 AM

It was raining outside, so fittingly,
for me to waste away
in this desolate place–
I suppose God had spared me the bitter irony
of a sunny day.

_

At 9 AM

They knocked on my door
with heavy hearts
and sunken eyes
and notepads
and they said, “we are so
so sorry for what has happened,”
and I laughed at His pedantism
to give them notepads.

“We are so sorry,”
they went on,
“and we regret to inform you
that
has passed away.”
And I laughed again
at their insistence,
like cockroaches who demand to keep living
and are dutifully granted their wish,
to finish their story
with sunken eyes.

I had not a question to ask them
because I had already spoken to them
one million times
and will surely speak to them one million more.
I supposed the only beautiful thing in repetition
is His mechanical insistence
and so I looked up to Him
but it was still raining
and so the men left.

_

At 10 AM

I sat at the kitchen counter
and sullied my dress on the dirty floor
that tried weakly to absorb me.
Had I let it,
I would find no less beauty there
than in the air that I breathe,
but even still I did not feel like becoming a kitchen floor
that day
and so instead I imagined what the tombstone would read.

“Here lies
,
who was everything
and is gone now.”

_

At 11 AM

I remembered that I had forgotten to move my clock back.

_

At 10 AM

I sat again at the kitchen counter
and paid no mind to the dirty floor
for he, too, was now lost
and his company loved Misery.

I put on a pot of coffee
and spilled several drops
but found nothing but Ambivalence,
and so I turned over Ambivalence,
as I always do,
but his brother was missing
and I saw through his back
right into the counter
upon which I had spilled coffee.

I offered a cup to the floor,
and to Misery,
and her leery cousin,
and we all drank our coffee in silence
because He was still not there.

_

At 11 AM

I imagined, once more, the tombstone
and the flowers people would leave there.
It is sad, I imagine,
for a corpse to become a waste bin for flowers.

I had ruminated upon the few decades of existence behind me
and the few decades in front of me
and the infinite void that surrounded both sides.
I think I had concluded that, in His absence,
there may not have been a difference.

It stopped raining, and so I went outside
and looked up to the sky
and proclaimed
“Hello,
! My world, how are you today!”
And I was answered only by the mechanical rustling of the wind,
tearing in the sky,
and chirping of the birds,
and so I went back inside.

_

At noon

I asked Misery
a question
that I had already asked one million times
and she said “you will insist no longer,
because it is not beautiful,”

so I did not insist any longer.

_

At 1 PM

I walked to the building with the men
of heavy hearts and sunken eyes
and notepads.

They said “we are so sorry
that
has passed away.”
And I said “I know.”
And they gave me some things
that would perhaps be useful
if not for His absence.

In His absence,
I have found only mechanical fetters,
and nothing beautiful!
How sad!
So I returned home
and sat at the kitchen counter
once more.

_

At 2 PM

I sipped my coffee, but it was now cold.

_

At 3 PM

I finished my coffee.

_

At 4 PM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 5 PM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 6 PM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 7 PM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 8 PM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 9 PM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 10 PM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 11 PM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At midnight

I looked outside
and could not tell if it was raining.

_

At 1 AM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 2 AM

I sat at the kitchen counter.

_

At 3 AM

I set off for bed,
and imagined the service
and what could possibly be said
that had not been said one million times
and concluded that there was nothing,
and that there was therefore only mechanical insistence,
which greatly saddened me,
because it would fetter in His absence.

“Here lies
, who was everything
and is gone now,
and serves us in His absence
as a waste bin for flowers.”

I struggled with this thought
because I knew he was still rasping
only a room away.

_

I don’t make sound.
Do you hear me?
Come, come now, do you hear me?
I don’t make sound.

I’ll slit my wrists
if you don’t hear me.
Sorry, I–
do you hear me?
I don’t mean that.

I don’t make sound.
I know I don’t make sound, but
come, now, do you hear me?
I know you don’t hear me, I–
I’m sorry.
Do you hear me?

I saw him, again, today
and he made sound.
And I heard him.
And I don’t make sound, but
I hope you hear me.

I sat in the kitchen, again, today
at the counter,
and I ate some
granola
and yoghurt
and I didn’t make a sound.
It tasted good.
I’ve been okay.
And the kettle whistled, but, not really
because it didn’t make a sound.
It didn’t make a sound, really.
And I heard it.
It didn’t make a sound, and I heard it!
Do you hear me?!

Well, hello, again.

I suppose I shall start with your vision,
and wither your dilated eyes,
until the cracked lenses of your pupils
are crushed and entangled and splintered
and struggle and falter to catch glimmers of light
until you are plunged into that darkness,
and where is your reality now?

And then I will creep across your parietal bones,
to your unglamorous ears, who have served you quite well
and I will destroy them and rip them to shreds
until a faint sense of ringing is all that remains,
and where is your reality now?

So I must glide along your cheek,
minding your stubble,
and I will gently dislocate your jaw,
and your nose,
and dab you with cotton,
and you will taste nothing but iron,
and where is your reality now?

And this is the hardest part, I know,
but I will trace your arteries to every extremity
and remove your fingers, toes,
hands, arms, legs,
ribs, intestines, torso,
and your heart will ba-dump ba-dump in vain,
until it ba-dump ba-dumps no more,
and you will feel nothing at all.

And where is your reality now?

You must be well aware by now that one day you will open your eyes
and you will see again.
And you may still taste iron,
but it will not taste the same,
and you will forget that we ever met until we indeed meet again,
and until then you will ask yourself
“where is my reality now?”

Did you hear me?
I said you can think ugly.

I said you can think about killing me.
I said you can think about your father who hates you,
your mother who killed herself,
because of you, by the way,
your failures as a species-being and as a friend
and as a poet.
Did you fucking hear me?
I said to think ugly!
Think of the worst moment of your life,
and times ten it,
and stew in that thought as long as you’d like.

It’s fine, really.
Just don’t talk ugly.

Don’t talk about your failures as a poet
or your desire to strangle me,
please.
Don’t talk about anything, actually,
because words are unfortunately real.
When the ephemeral swarm of locusts in your head
localize to clink and scratch at the roof of your mouth,
and you let out that one ugly word,
that tiny flick of the tongue,
that changes everything, forever, because it is real,
and suddenly your mother really did kill herself,
and your father really does hate you–
I won’t be here anymore.

Got that?

Three hundred dead trees
lay decrepit in the lawn
of the house of booze and music,
whose tenants danced like ghosts,
and you swallowed the floor and
leaned over that half-rotten fence and
lay decrepit in my arms.

And you said something, I think, and I laughed,
and I said “surely I am a pitiable creature,”
and surely you agreed.

And you said something else, I guess,
and I laughed again, or maybe cried
and took a drag of your cigarette
that was slightly too long
and you surely felt a pitiable creature.

And neither of us wanted to go inside, probably
but we went inside, I’m sure
and you said something
and said something else
and we never spoke again.

Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump,
modestly screams my ‘06 Escape,
when I turn the key and its four exhausted cylinders
crash and groan to life.

Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump,
turns over my weary heart,
as the parts of my brain I don’t recognize
silently direct my essence.

I am a poor mechanic and a terrible surgeon
yet I rely on these machines that I have inhabited,
superseded,
to bring me to work and to become human.
I see now that my previous comments
of my essence as mere flesh
are reductive and cruel;
clearly, there was an entity before me
that piloted the 150lbs I now pretend to
and will surely pilot it afterwards.
To allow me my turn to play,
and to live and love and feel and work and drive and inhabit this machine,
is surely a sign of good will.

Is that right?

I reckon there must be 50,
60 percent of these machines that I cannot wish to ever understand.
To be a guest in a system so beautifully complex is an enviable role,
and so I take my position in stride.
And when the landlord comes knocking,
and my four cylinders ba-dump ba-dump no more,
or at least I am not allowed to hear it,
I must at least take solace in the pitiful recognition
that only a tenant has died.

I am not scared of my darkness,
or the lies he tells to me.
No, I’m happy with my darkness;
but not the space between.

Alone in bed or far from home,
don’t fear what can’t be seen–
but when you leave at night I see
that sickly space between.

The space that no one lives
where I can’t laugh or cry or scream–
There’s no self left to lose alone
or leave alight when I’m between.

Truly, there’s no “I” at all,
as somber as it seems.
The dust won’t seem to settle
because it writhes.

It is 8 PM and I have never seen you cry
but I have brushed against you at the most unfortunate angle
and felt your heart beat out of time with your smile

And it is 8 PM and I have measured your life in circumference
with respect to time, space, and moral character
and I have come to respect your care in the way a basset hound respects game

And it is 8 PM and I have never felt more alone than
in the brief moments of silence we dare not fill
and the stars are so beautiful you can almost see them

And it is 8 PM and I have felt the gnarls of your skin
at the bottom of a bottle and I have heard your whispers
through the willows in the yard
and I miss when you were something I remembered
and when my watch didn’t tick out of time with its face
and I miss when we hadn’t spoken because you still
speak to me in ways

And it is 8 PM and I have never seen you
And my watch has been broken all night

I am not friends with Death,
although it’s not like we fight–
we’re just firm acquaintances
with a propensity to bump into each
other now and then and slightly catch up
before it becomes too awkward
and we walk in opposite directions.

He messages me every few months,
and asks how I’ve been,
and we talk about trips to the grocery store and
he says “we should totally hang out soon”
and I say “totally, I’ve just been so busy recently”
and I wince as I hit send
and he types for a few seconds before stopping
and reacts with a thumbs up emoji
and I turn my phone off for a while.

We used to be so close,
but I think it’s for the best.

It is so easy for us monkeys to forget ourselves;
to live as burdened souls, burning dreams, stars of desire
liberally draped in flesh.
Well, to live as a burdened soul would be nice–
so romantic, so tragic, so beautiful.
I am not beautiful.
I am an intricately designed mess of
tendons, nerves, electrical signals,
passions, fears, myofibrils.
My heart beats faster at night
when I think about my heart beating
in an ambivalent quirk of biology that
only serves to spike my blood pressure
and not to make a good poem.
It is so easy to forget that I am not beautiful.
That my interests as something pretty and as something living are
perpetually fighting a war
that will kill me when either side loses.

…but isn’t it cute to bludgeon my problem-solving mind
with poetry, music, physics
and gawk at the sheer realization, slack-jawed, heart pumping
in a vain attempt to outrun the predator I tango with–
the realization that something so effortlessly attractive,
so painful, so foreign
was only made by a living thing
and not by something beautiful?

You whisper to me, intimately,
though we’ve never met. Is it
failure when you’ve worked and
hurt to harp an empty set?
You speak to me in tongues I’ve
not the mind to understand,
but when when your crooked teeth align
my heart will smile next.

You’ll never hear this poem, I hope, but
hear my silent prayer–
that if your voice is ever heard, my
love will then be shared.
Your bleeding gums, your rusted crown of
greatness left behind; for the
song with seven listens, I’ll sit
next to you in time.