i’ve been thinking lately
about the sorry state of us
about the frozen coil of the thread
that winds through and around
behind and ahead, sideways,
we are being scripted sideways,
a thwarting and unbecoming.
don’t you feel it?
there’s an anger fermenting within my heart,
i am destitute, indigent, broken,
and no matter how i grow, strengthen,
no matter how i repair,
the glue won’t hold,
the fixing won’t fix, the
caring won’t care.
i’m in a play,
a broken opera,
a fictional blog,
writing in anger
this is not i
i am in twelve tone. i have no key.
admit it: i hardly matter, and
that’s ok because you hardly matter either.
we maintain. we are mountains. we are crushed, but
somewhere, in some ether world, we are still mountains,
and we can jump off of each other, until
none of us are left.
i am passing out. in silence.
in sound. in
the shape of words, or of the silence. it
doesn’t matter. where stillness is violence, and
where movement is empty.
look, he moves. the breathing, it speaks of the vapor, the inner chill of
is it my fault or yours? or his.
where is the blame. tonight,
let it rest, get wasted,
and write poetry.