New Knowledge

A broken bone

Is also new knowledge.

A bone is there that

Was not there before.

This knowledge is felt,

But it is not enjoyed.

I have stopped missing you.

Your stupid sadness, the

Nightmare that you wake up

Into each day. I understand

It. I know what it means

To shut your eyes and

Fall into quicksand,

Unable to breathe,

But also unable to die.

It is creative and it always

Feels new: the ways in which

We can collide into each

Other, or ourselves, and

Learn about our bodies.

I watched you yesterday,

No longer proud

Of yourself. A grown man

Crying at a birthday

Party. Simple pleas that

Used to work, forcing hugs

In the kitchen. I’ve stopped

Feeling you, and am

Looking at

My guts contained by

Skin, barely.

It will hurt until it doesn’t

Anymore, like the wildfires

In the West. The trees will

Burn. The bugs will die.

The terror will be quiet,

Folded, something that happens

At night. I will wake up

In the morning unsure

Of myself, no longer

Brilliant, because I’m

No longer blind. 

"i am not a fun person" yields 5,120 google search results.

it is a bruised but thinking
a wail from inside body
or whale, swallowed
still not sure
when there were garbage cans
the lids would splatter
metal sounds
flashing and jarring
we use plastic now,
soundless and deathless

**

Can’t convulse it into being/ forgot its smell and its teeth
Have taken my tongue from the guts
And have nullified my grief
I am waiting for it though
And am thick in the duty of my nothingness, my forgetting.

i want to be

sick in new fashions,
want amputation. obscure beating pulses.
trash accumulates in the compost,
soiling plants. ennui spreads,
a swollen culture,
disease eats well in hot places

hand gun

i think about myself like a raft and i think about water
panic is a rash, it is order confirmations and quiet vomit
in the company bathroom. she says that yoga
is an escape from sorrow
which is an escape from everything other than itself

i might be finished writing poems.

which sux.
drawing though.

s&m

the death-wish is a wish. the death-wish affirms life. the life is the death. being and going. sweat on a cardigan. sirens call from the edges of cliffs that hedge against the water like water of memory, the beach you would run on in the morning and the holy broadening or breaking. impulse control, shattered lamp, blood and fingers, holy, what is bared, control, abuse and fatalism.

google results

Results 1 - 10 of about 6,710,000,000 for no
Results 1 - 10 of about 1,450,000,000 for love
Results 1 - 10 of about 664,000,000 for yes
Results 1 - 10 of about 612,000,000 for sex
Results 1 - 10 of about 476,000,000 for death
Results 1 - 10 of about 463,000,000 for god
Results 1 - 10 of about 226,000,000 for television
Results 1 - 10 of about 226,000,000 for gay
Results 1 - 10 of about 75,300,000 for happiness
Results 1 - 10 of about 37,700,000 for enthusiasm
Results 1 - 10 of about 18,400,000 for sadness
Results 1 - 10 of about 10,100,000 for boredom

hell-themed

there were birds in the trees at the airport
i noticed them
you noticed them
i touched your hair
small-bone creature

too much coffee

i am shivering and sweating and my heart is beating too fast.

my face went numb and my neck went numb.

now only one side of my neck is numb and i am eating a salad very slowly and reading about the enneagram.

*
*

an update:

one month later.

my neck is still numb.

po@-0i9ghotpink.

no longer sadly
no longer seeing ghosts

forfeiting security for something i remember to be valuable though i have forgotten what it is.

do not need to see.

the question of terror.

your sins are the sins of the world.

you are in them and of them.



private words in a private book on the very softest paper i have

***

intimacy detached from libido:

the toddler kiss

***

ennui: bordem of the soul.

***

rx gobble

projection screen

the audience knows

we can have it all

***

twilight pleases

nothing hours

***

refrigerator garden:

limp funks and magnets, the garfields,

the dangerous grass

***

i can trace your departure in ink

i can get away fast

all of it

it's friday but i do not feel the sun from the weekend, i feel the gap from the weekend, weekend widens into a zombie eclipse,

i want my lips to be kissed because it is a habit to want it
all passion dies
but death is not always passionate

the flourescent sitting journey,
open mouth,
eating spiders as we sleep
on a mattress with the cover unfolded,
padding exposed,
that corner could be all of it.

WE WANTED TO SAY SOMETHING BUT THERE WASN'T ANYTHING.

this is how i want to put myself onto you

i am sore with desire
in a filthy kitchen
cat piss on the couch
these elliott smith songs aren't working anymore
i do not want to be a woman
i do not want to be a boy
i want to kiss the champagne in the kitchen
i want dull promises
i was in a nonsexual relationship
with a woman who loves mariah carey
and the boyfriend i helped her get
now i am in a nonsexual relationship
with a woman who collects pigeon parts
she could mop the floor with my face
i am profoundly dysfunctional
but have nice penmanship
i am tame in a cage
i want electrocution or at least to be adopted
i could be the part of a mangled bird,
you could collect me.

26

there is no one to share two am with you
two am will not even be among
your own memories
memory--failed word
nothing-having--exasperated success
the illness could push through you
until you are 35
and then throw you back to now
in the crook of two hours
two am
here is a tedious landscape of malaise
within the small room you did not paint
barely chose
you are alive and happy to be
but there is no one to share 26 with
you do not understand how others
can work and stay together
you have only been swimming through the murk
on which others position their water skis
what do you think of brazil
belize
do you travel
you do
at two am
you fly through your own moonlit warehouse
bay windows, scrawling roots
insect bite
tinnitus like cicadas hums
chorus of cricket legs
ambulance chorus
plastic braceletes
blow jobs
scarves
the broken lamp
cavities and bills
a 26-year-old fruit fly on your lip.

i am a miner
my city is cold
i am digging blind
i am sleeping with pens
in my hand
in my jacket sometimes
wake up
and brian eno is playing
it could be one am
or five am
i could have died already
but missed it
because i was stoned
and curled up by the
space heater.