the cutting
lasts for 8 or more hours
a day

and then his hut for sleep

and then back again

and he might do this forever

but maybe his shackles
are made out of pride.

a horn is played by
a person and that
person is just like you

and people don’t follow
other people around
waiting for important moments
to emphasise
with horns

there won’t be any
horns for you
ever

no matter what happens

no matter if you hear them

no matter what you’re doing

they won’t be there.

AND YOUR LIFE MUST HAVE STICKING
POWER

BUT YOU’VE LOST IT ALREADY

UNDER THE PRETENSE THAT

YOU MUST EMPHASIZE ANY THING
AT ALL.

i was on the
internet
giving out my credentials

chatting
and
sometimes even
recieving phone calls
from california
or ann arbor
or iowa

even after punishment
i would run this wire
in the night
like a spy

i never knew
you were dying for that
and
i’ll be turning
24 this year.

and left the only
footprints in the
cave of the troglophiles

how could you know
how much i love you?
the knee-prints can’t
the hand-prints can’t
the finger-prints can’t
tell

even if they followed
the new lines in their
opaque world
no guess could be had
at me

even if my breath
reached any nape
no energy would pass

(even if it did
i can’t put a
blind lizard in
a prom dress)

i wrote and wrote
but only those with
eyes ever saw it.

and it’s about what they think
and about how they smile when
they think it
and as their smiles grow there
are a million grating shreaks
growing, too and it sounds
like pulling a rusty rake across
a rusty tractor
in an aluminum barn

it’s about caring

it’s about how you’re all wrong

and i’ve stopped offering corrections

stopped giving out tours

to the lake from which to drink
only
if you’ve learned what direction

we took to get there

no one has ever made it
there and back

except
for those of us with coke-
bottle eyes
then

then

everything is far too clear
and there is water everywhere
everywhere
that you are not

i lay down among
the velvet and
stare longingly
at my desk
and feel the cold
reach at me

and when the sun
touches the floor
it even is cold at
first,
but you brought me
lunch

your smiling face

i started to feel
the warmth again
and the velvet
went back
to cotton.

we’re forgettable people,
i and the mcdonald’s man

we are seen yet unseen
or relativly anonymous

we are unimportance personified
with no books or pictures
in our names
and i am uncertain
if that will ever hold any weight
at all.

it’s all there
in black and white
standard fonts

the fresh news is miles away
being tracked and flashed to
you by satellites

but you crinkle it up
“this is all shit”
you say

they’ve filled your pallette
but you scour your carpet
for a new taste

and you refuse to love the sun
and stay in-doors
praying to your false idols

you believe in magic
like a child
and you won’t be hung for it
but you should.

pale yellow sunday
mornings burn our shadows
into the walls which
no one else can read

i woke up today and
sighed
i cracked my neck
i stretched and swore
i’d never have to
do it again

and if you take the
window for just its
light and not its
vista
this seems just like paradise.

the way that is unsure
if it is good enough.

and i’d travel great
distances to prove

that the smile on your
face is a real one.

in a world of smoke
and mirrors

you are a cool breeze
and a warm sun,

and
i am sorry
for sometimes
being unsure
in miracles.

when i see you
standing in the cold-grey
street, my head barely
above a desk,
with your arms like propellars
i will wonder for a
moment where you’re flying
off to until you get crushed
under the weight
of the commute–

then systematically you
get cleaned up off the cement
like a stain on a white counter
that stretches for infinity
for absolutely no reason.

repeating retarded preambles

his living quarters in shambles

his bookshelf lined with candles

about hypothetical rain.
this, with none to gain
but the lull that come with refrain.

and i thought of you, janelle

and having not felt bad for
you yet, i still cringe watching
you play out your favorite scenes
from friends out in public
at the bar
with that nerd
on your arm
who will put his dick in you
finally, while across the
city i write this

and the thought of you was not fond

because the real test, i feel
(and never expressed to the
fairy) is when a person gets
kicked when they’re down that
they get back up and remain
honest

and i believe, janelle

that the first time you pricked
your finger on a bush, you held
it against the allmighty himself
and took up to acting
to get your dopamine
when not working for it like
everyone else

and here i sit, insulting you
in prose

because i don’t believe

in fairies.