what a bore, to be corporeal
i want to be lonely in the way
that stars are lonely -
bright and purposeful in their distance.
i want to have beautiful isolation
the kind that people paint
and take pictures of.
i want to be any poem
that is not my own.
this poem? sucks.
in short,
this time is wasted.
it is breathless and dim
and it dies
without audience -
my loneliness cannot have audience
because, then, it would simply not be.
stars are millions of miles off
and yet are still visible,
still spotted with a camera on a hill
while two photographers hold hands.
if you are close enough to take
a picture of me,
it is implied that
perhaps i am not as alone
as i thought i was.
and perhaps you
should get out of my house.
ephemerality is derivative.
i’d rather live forever
with beautiful pain
than for approximately
twenty three more years
with whatever the hell this is.