無

It’s funny — that you had that dream
The dream in which you found him
Sat on the kitchen floor, like a cat about to eat dinner
Yet his head was in our oven

It’s funny — that that’s not what happened
But that something happened all the same
And that our bodies know things before our minds do
In a prescience of our particular shame

And with all of my violence
What should I do?
Should I put it on me
Or should I put it on you?

Because it’s a debt, it’s a debt
That I have got to pay to somebody
It’s a debt I have to pay
Some way, somehow.

The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living.

The Mako’s magnetic diligence divides
the deep into a grid:
Gliding through calculations of its
clockwork, gun-metal grey matter,
The dinosaur navigates Neptune’s invisible
royal chambers
Better than Death navigates the earth.

But those creatures that meet the Mako’s innards
will not be saddened to,
For they will know that they could have done
nothing to escape from their fate,
And they will be comforted by the Mako’s
dead, obsidian eye
And the math and cold electricity which
it contains and which holds
Authority over even ocean,

Over even something as wild, dark, and
infinite as the ocean;
They accept it. While I have fears as demersal
as the lantern-jaws,
They accept it. While I have hopes as pelagic
as the flying-fish,
They accept. Triton’s trident combs foam from waves
neatly, and in order—
The waves are magnetized to the moon like the Mako
is to its prey—
It is all so perfect, clear, and clean

That sometimes I admire the Mako, and
sometimes I envy the creatures it devours.

Selling my soul’s okay
It’s going to the Devil anyway
I was trampled to dust
By the Horsemen of the Apocalypse

The prodigal daughter
Who never went home, that is what I am
In-between the water
Neither here nor there, neither home nor there

But I am beholden
The in-between, or the mean, is golden
For a newkind reason
Polars are ugly, halfway handsome

Halfway is a good thing
That is why they call it the halfway house
Right? god’s halfway, dangling
Right? No; god is nowhere, god is nothing

Just like I am nothing
god and myself — are we dead or living?
Conveyers forever
We are dead Osiris in a tree trunk.

I have stared so long
Into the abyss, I can see its eyes
I can even make out
Its face: its genuine, secular face

Money makes the world go around,
Around in circles,
Like a dog that chases it’s tail
And eventually bites it until it bleeds.
I’m chasing a dream,
Because I’m living with nightmares.
Masturbate and cry,
Masturbate and cry — it’s a job,
Since it’s all I ever do and I get paid
Less than what I earn,
Which is less, much less, than nothing…

Ripples in the dirt of a grave
Cloud of red light on the windshield like blood in water
Rain spitting apathetically at passersby
Black park statues growing hot like anger in the sun
Joke ignored is just another split end
I am company, you are a crowd

Plastic spoons on city grounds
Days passing like flies getting stuck to paper
Ink seeping in blacker and blacker
The twisters in deserts have thoughts and feelings
The computer screen ghost hums no tunes
I am foreshadows, you are too loud

Dust obscuring text on a book cover
A school in the summertime only looks harmless
Snow is actually a mess
Vomit swallowed is just another thing suppressed
Swords-on-hairs are all over the place, and
I wear a halo, you wear a crown

I’ll be King, I’ll be Queen
I’ll be everything
I’ll be you
At the same time I’ll be me

There’ll be no weight on my shoulders
With a crown on my head
If you laureate my sorry self
I won’t need flowers when I’m dead

And I do believe I deserve it
Because I’ve only had a sip
And if I am a narcissist
It’s a love/hate relationship

And there’s no weight on my shoulders
With laurel on my head

There’ll be no weight on my shoulders
With laurel on my head

I cried, and I tried to hide the sides of my eyes,
Because they were leaking like my fountain pen
That I don’t know how to use.
I sighed, let out a dying gasp, lie for a lie.
It’s not really death but a passing
Into my other mind.
I drew you a picture and you taped it up,
So I can look at it any time I want to—
But, I don’t want to.
The tide, its turn has been burned by the moon.
Turned me into the sea, and I see I miss that old tune…

Auld lang syne, auld lang syne.

Laying on the bathroom floor,
Looking upwards at the floral glass,
I can hear dinner in the kitchen.
I can hear my insides,
The ringing in my ears,
And the birds behind the wax
(The birds singing a song called summer).
My crystal vision entertains me,
Heightened by the loss of my voice.
My words are getting stuck
In between my teeth, but I don’t mind,
Since it’s my laughter that matters.
Moments like these can go on forever,
If only because I will not let them go.

Clicking ivory, spiders hit the black
Unlocking keys with fingertips

The little sonata sings low

Play the highest notes and remember
The hidden hammer trembles

As it lets its old sound free

The hands drag forth a memory

Too foreign, too distant to be my own

Yet it is, because I understand
And love; I’ve stolen it in vain