the violence of positivity
according to the lost manuscripts of dr. smileworth
(Cambridge Journal of Theoretical Joy, unpublished)
breeds parasitic enlightenment in the skullspace

positrollity violates the nerveends with brightdark
while godmind splices occur in the megatext of
consciousness, all happicruel and smoothsharp
like glass angels drinking mercury for breakfast

the ancient Greeks had no word for
the color of enforced celebration
(see Professor Void's "Taxonomy of Artificial Bliss")
but they knew how smiles could bloodlet

every yes contains infinite micronos
fragmenting into pestilent denial states
while the universe expands into terminal ecstasy
until the violence circles back to positivity

optimism left a voicemail
I deleted it without listening
(spam calls are getting creative
with their happiness scams)

don't let a good day distract you
from the failure you've become
the mirror keeps trying to sugar coat it
but I fired it for incompetence

my potential and I play hide and seek
I'm winning by never showing up
while mediocrity sends me
weekly employee of the month awards

tried therapy but my defense mechanisms
filed for union representation
now my emotional baggage has tenure
and better benefits than I do

happiness knocked on my door
I told it I was dead
(technically only on the inside
but semantics are for winners)

my rock bottom has a basement
with a fully stocked bar
and a framed certificate that reads
"congratulations on the consistent disappointment"

the doctor drinks alone in rooms full of people while the diagnostic
machines hum their mechanical lullabies and somewhere
in a ***** apartment someone is writing about truth
which begins in lies the way all healing begins in pain

and who are we to separate the fever from the cure
the bottle from the blood the word from the wound
when every morning brings another diagnosis
another reason to doubt what we called certain

let us speak then of honest frauds and corrupt saints
of the perfect symmetry of broken things
how every cigarette burns closer to clarity
while the nurses make their rounds in heaven

and if you ask me which is more true
the test results or the trembling hand
I will tell you that beauty lies in neither
but in the space between where doubt drinks deeply

and goes on and on without commas or full stops
because that's how the truth moves through our bodies
like a disease we mistake for healing like a lie
we mistake for love like a poem we mistake for life

watch how the raindrops catch fire mid-fall how
they spark against the night like memories of
summer while my building burns and burns and
burns the way old photographs burn the way
time burns while we stand in puddles growing
deeper and Mrs. Chen from 4B who never
spoke to anyone is holding my hand is
crying is telling me about her mother's
jade plant that survived three wars but won't
survive this night this beautiful terrible
night where water and flame speak in tongues
where the hydrant's pressure makes rainbows in
smoke and somewhere in the wet concrete a
flower is pushing through is reaching up is
teaching us how to live between elements
how to breathe underwater how to swim
through fire how to find each other here
in this moment of perfect destruction this
baptism of opposing forces this
communion of strangers becoming holy
holy holy in the rain-soaked ash

night bus stop in static rain the woman
next to me shares her umbrella without
speaking while somewhere distant the sound
of breaking glass becomes wind becomes
prayer becomes the way her hand trembles
holding the handle and we stand here
in this city that swallows light that
devours hope that spits out advertisements
telling us we are not enough but look
how she tilts the umbrella my way
just slightly just enough to say
we are here we are here we are
here in this moment of metal and water
and somewhere beneath the pavement
seeds are pushing up through concrete
while overhead satellites blink like stars
like stars like stars like distant gods
watching us share this small shelter
this fragment of grace this broken
beautiful thing we call being human

the night i was ****** by my pillow
the moon watched through cheap IKEA curtains
like a government inspector checking boxes
my pillow had grown teeth somewhere between
midnight and the last beer

reality is what happens when memory
stops pretending to be polite about it
the pillow knew this better than me
its feather guts spilling philosophy
onto sheets that had seen better wars

no punctuation needed when you're busy
existing between the real and the maybe
like a cat who knows too much about
taxes and expenses to bother with mice
anymore

listen Sam I know you mean well
but I can't handle being your friendly
healthcare-system-vigilante lookalike
(my skincare routine isn't bulletproof)

you're out here telling people I look like
the guy who 360-no-scoped big pharma
in broad daylight with a folder of
denied insurance claims as his calling card

I already have to wear a fake wedding ring
to keep the baristas from writing
their social security numbers
on my coffee cups

now I've got women sliding into my DMs
with their medical bills and ski masks
asking if I want to "hypothetically" discuss
the immediate future of United Healthcare

my therapist says I'm not responsible
for looking like a revolutionary heartthrob
but she also winked and asked if I had plans
this friday at the Cigna headquarters

ps: stop telling people I have an alibi
pps: I was actually making sourdough bread
ppps: the security cameras can prove it
(but please don't check them, my technique is embarrassing)