let me be cool

if i don’t hit the mark

tonight, it’s finished.

everything

is. i hyperbolate

but only a little bit.  * omg,

 

Yes! we have a future together.

 

i can’t even make a doctor’s visit

w/out fuss- a/miss. i curse

at the level of my breath

like they weren’t meant to hear it

but they do.

 

i mean to complain but it’s

dismissed as an apology. I evince

displeasure – a pass at the bend

in the road, so there: i risk

death because you’re so

slow & so

 

inconsiderate. is this

neurosis? interesting. is it

worth it. am i not better

served if composed of

proficient verses:

 

geological features, the secret lives

of trees, refugees on xmas island. i

 

soar

a kite or sly

lie for you to come

 

true,

practice moves, surprised

by the mirror in yr room. i’m

done & it’s too late to say hey

 

this isn’t poetry, but i’m

passing it off as

such – the white

 

space

defaced

by the handprint i.

 

squeeze the s…

out of the sap, eye

the clock because i’m hungry now.

 

* i’d care

more about my teeth but they’re set to outlive

my vital organs

 

& i’ll have no use for them

anyway but a

 

party trick, an accessory

after the fact              * the

 

 

perverse thing is

i want to remember, live

on the edge of my skin, feel

now what i felt then – the sting

of consciousness, to know i’m here

coiled about myself,

 

a presence you try

not to notice, not

to care. to think me off

the page –

 

lie with & never speak

of it again.

 

do i enervate? scratch the glass

of yr knowing. what

 

next.

do you think of the consequence? no

or yes.  * in the

 

confluence of possibilities

a pattern emerges

only the birds see,

moving slowly; nevertheless

fatalist

 

argument’s still good even when

chance upsets

my structure. call it

 

modulation, a split

atom; an assassin,

say, strikes

 

for no reason.

Variety. whatever fills

yr bowl, or evacuates.

open the door to

 

U-

bet. down the tube, thru the

Bend, reality

makes me sick. existence as i

understand it

defuncted. flunked in

to non-ness Pot of Post

postmodish golden brass

knob at the end of a

full

stop – knock

knock

 

& i can’t get my dressing gown on quick enuf & a sleeve’s inside out & i tumble down the stairs

& i haven’t got it on still  when i open the door &

who the fuck’s there

 

 

 

Share this post: on Twitter on Facebook on Google+ on LinkedIn