i thought, bri
efly of killing
my0
self
after that lo
ve poem
i wr
wr
wrote you
just to make a completely and all-together somewhat opposite kind of point
and
i sup
pose that is the pa
rt of me that
ne
ne
ne
ne
eds to die,
isn’t it
darling?
There is a poem
just beneath this surface
of jumbled thoughts
and nonsensical moments,
banging against the walls,
burning the roof,
huffing and puffing
and threatening to blow
my mental house down
(as well as my mind);
but in the end,
the walls, they hold,
and the roof, the roof
is not on fire,
and the poem slowly grows silent
succumbing to the stronger force
of indifferent apathy,
dying along with its
potential beauty.
ohio,
dramamine,
this is a long drive
for someone with
nothing
to think about
i might
show the custom concern
and head south
into the tundra/
desert
because she
ionizes
and
atomizes
while i’m
talking shit
about a pretty sunset
and we go down to
her beachside property,
dog paddle,
and it’s all about
making everyone happy/
mechanical birds
so she goes to sleep
while i’m at the lounge
where
space travel is boring…
wait, breakthrough,
exit does not exist.
The one good that comes from angst
is that now I have a poem to write
where before there was none.
the sieve and the sand 