Sep 2016
Operational anxiety. The words I've been using don't make any sense to me anymore. It's all quiet and I have so many questions. The mountains shout, "*******!" over the Gros Ventre. And I'm lifeless and apathetic about lessons. I just turn on the Philip Glass and go for **** misunderstanding. More of it is coming and somehow I allow it in. A me circle of despair, loss, and immense love. My subjects must be growing curiouser and curiouser. Some of these adverbs dress in white dresses with black boots and carry scars on their palms while they bribe you off their tears to crawl back into the dusty desert graves your skin wants back.
My oven mitts aren't even of animals. I stare at the deer and moose from our second story balcony. My wrists hurt in a loss of practicing this habit. Subject matter that burns through the nights where I don't sleep. I torment myself in nursery rhymes that don't rhyme. Beds that don't water themselves, and the stories that keep my fingers soggy and pruney, drowning their dactylic digits in infinite keyboard unfulfillment.
The music is familiar. It throws its knife-wielding notes into my gut- my innards are bleeding, and my headache is growing stiff. I could mutate like Alex Mac and operate in a vacuum. I could be an incubator of self-aggrandizing disastrous behavior, an awful diaspora of introspection, a sickness that starts in soft flesh and tissue and summarizes me in the faces and heads of people and children that never turned their heads to listen.
I am wrestling your poems out of your hands. A royal couplet you try to explode against your innards, and a ****** prose that cascades upon the walls, in a mushy textural, even artistic mess of crimsony soulless words you throw around, things haven't changed but you I think you were just pretending to be haunting.
Winter hoarfrost and summer sweating. Integers upsetted by short-acting suns and cold and chilling dips in frigid waist-high water. The rocks are slimy and I don't feel like the fires are still coming. I point my nose to the water and take fifty paces. When will I have my forty-two minute day. Children are ***** liars and ought to have no sugar or treats. But let's not feed them from bowls we place on the floor.
My fingers are freezing, my cheeks, nose, back, and elbows too. I am smoking and never going to stop. I have met Joe Black and he tells me he used to command David Berkowitz into shooting people in cars, so I tell him the only thing certain in life is death and taxes, and that we need a new dishwasher, a cheaper place to buy ice cream, and a rough concrete square of floor I can torture myself for experiencing too much as human.
My oven mitts aren't even of animals. I stare at the deer and moose from our second story balcony. My wrists hurt in a loss of practicing this habit. Subject matter that burns through the nights where I don't sleep. I torment myself in nursery rhymes that don't rhyme. Beds that don't water themselves, and the stories that keep my fingers soggy and pruney, drowning their dactylic digits in infinite keyboard unfulfillment.
The music is familiar. It throws its knife-wielding notes into my gut- my innards are bleeding, and my headache is growing stiff. I could mutate like Alex Mac and operate in a vacuum. I could be an incubator of self-aggrandizing disastrous behavior, an awful diaspora of introspection, a sickness that starts in soft flesh and tissue and summarizes me in the faces and heads of people and children that never turned their heads to listen.
I am wrestling your poems out of your hands. A royal couplet you try to explode against your innards, and a ****** prose that cascades upon the walls, in a mushy textural, even artistic mess of crimsony soulless words you throw around, things haven't changed but you I think you were just pretending to be haunting.
Winter hoarfrost and summer sweating. Integers upsetted by short-acting suns and cold and chilling dips in frigid waist-high water. The rocks are slimy and I don't feel like the fires are still coming. I point my nose to the water and take fifty paces. When will I have my forty-two minute day. Children are ***** liars and ought to have no sugar or treats. But let's not feed them from bowls we place on the floor.
My fingers are freezing, my cheeks, nose, back, and elbows too. I am smoking and never going to stop. I have met Joe Black and he tells me he used to command David Berkowitz into shooting people in cars, so I tell him the only thing certain in life is death and taxes, and that we need a new dishwasher, a cheaper place to buy ice cream, and a rough concrete square of floor I can torture myself for experiencing too much as human.
