Now that you've decided to start this year like every other day of it.
You've realized treating every year like a dead line's
a good way of procrastinating your own existence.
A deadlines the point in time at which something becomes meaningless.
Catching yourself on fire,
you realized this is a decent hobby for those with skin.
Imagine you'd said, if they made houses out of skin,
I though of you.
Not one for metaphors
I'm relying on you to literally be a deadline.
This bed gave birth to you.
You're a nightmare,
This bed's the side of my face I'm fine with not coming out of for weeks.
7 days later is a week
not that anyone's counting
but I've won.
If you'd like, we'll do literally nothing forever
and just how long till I get to become that void I'm staring at?
Soon, you'll say,
or maybe you won't, either way I'm ready to believe you.
Right now you're happy about lying about being happier alone.
Soon you'll be alone, happy about lying about being happier.
Asking what you'd do with three wishes you said
"her" twice, pointing at only one person, said
"die" once, explaining how to fit the worlds ******* supply into a single room.
After reading three books by Kafka
you realized knowing what Kafkaesque means is overrated.
You once smiled at the sun like it was proud of your teeth.
Now your mouths mostly full of rain,
and you really are proud of your teeth.
My hearts beating like its blowing at a small ember in your hands.
I'm the kind who answers "What time is it?"
by turning into a clock
You're the kind to answer " It's all a construct"
before peeling yourself in public like a cold grape.
Soon we'll both perfect being bowls
full of what couldn't be scraped off us.
For now that blank book I wrote " Notes On Futility"
should be enough to sustain you.
I only hope its looking at the blank pages
that turns you blind
not the way you lick your fingers to turn them.
A falasy, I'm ready for anything.
A fact, niether are you.
A song, drag a small corpse, across your lawn
there'll be neighbors, cutting grass
and a sprinkler'll hit you, and your, cold handful.
An ice cream truck plays, and it's, warm out.
Somewhere some child cries, that hes, missed out.
His parents promise, to take him, to the store.
A Concept, me in the dirt
the warmth of the sun radiates through the loose earth
I smell only beautiful things.
A rock scratches just where I want it to
and nothing really moves.
There is no longer a need for music.
The title and poem itself inspired by Graham Foust's: To Graham Foust On The Morning Of His Fortieth Birthday