Tagged: the Self


I am writing again, which
feels like the wrong thing
behind me
there are thousands of figures

symbols for lost time
like a chair is not its word
“chair” a person
is not his name

nor is he what he leaves
he is not named
“gunk in corners”

though he resides there
with no need for sitting, writing
now he sinks
where chairs were

leaving behind residue
like ink
on the paper
at night

Lime Rinse

maybe I never
in the first place

jelly down a sea of me
me me me

me as I changed
into me again

over and over
over? it continues

through sleep
I am pulled down

tighter, so that you
can be stitched up

I am upside down to you
therefore, to me

The Point I’m Trying to Make Is

it starts out as a thought
which is to say

the only thing
between nothing and thought
is me

what am i mostly?
tonight i caught a knife
after i dropped it

at first i felt impressed
that is not unlike
an immediate thought

a knife
falling through the mind

i’d rather have a spoon
an egg

the things i feel second
thirdly about

to balance my egg
down this botched,
carnivalian raceway

keeping the spoon straight
with my mind

i’d avoid the knife-jugglers
who are looking
directly at me

their points connected
to my sternum

it’s like my body knows
it will die that way
in some freak accident

there is one long
accordion squeeze
of life

you leave your egg
in a basket
at the end

a Curse

there’s water to drink from
above the carcass

& seasons bringing courage
under spell of delusion

is it winter? there are still
mosquitoes. larvae twitch
from room to room

& tadpoles remain tadpoles
in their comfortably
sized ponds

having no reason to change
they do not
as you have not

until you see long legs
step out, away
the whole thing moves

the known world
noticeably smaller

& there isn’t enough room
for what you feel like

in an otherwise
happy life