I am the wasteland.
My chest,
A cavity shoveled empty,
Filled with infinite space,
Devoid of blood and bone,
Is host to cosmos and ghosts.

And where I once had heart,
Black holes,
Punched out and multiplied,
Empty and expanding,
Aching under the weight of eternity,
Riddle the cavity where my soul once lived.

And shackled to the weight of fate, I watch as:
Shovelers and boxers,
 Blind and unaware,
 Consciously choosing not to care,
 Speaking iron words of weaponry,
Turn my body into a canyon.

And as this scene is comes to a close.
My death,
Foreshadowed early on,
Also barren and filled with despair,
Beckoning and luring,
Is clearly laid out on a horizon.

And though it's true I have been hollowed out,
The void,
Absent hope,
Blank and staring over the human race,
With only wisps of thought to run my head,
*Is the comfort I've learned to be.

There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.*
Leonard Cohen

the night birds
do want to be saved from light
in the land of whispers
the toll of complexity is
their unchanged lament
trapped between layers
insecure inside the semiotic square:
what is real?
true?
imaginary?
what is true and not true? – the call of destruction
this terror, the impossibility of meaning, shut inside the
drawer with plastic bags
we made my house there
somebody had to play the fool
these are reality games
recognition games
language games
with no key for the other’s syntax
who is the subject in this grave of flesh?
reality should be transactional
but the silence turned its face away instead
the clear bodies without voice rejoice
nobody asked the body how difficult it is to bear a mind
“we all know it’s not true & don’t you dare recognize it”
“you should be happy with your life & happiness doesn’t exist
(look at my poor body)”
“you are on your own & don’t you dare disobey”
“you must prove yourself & you are no good without us”

the right to reality was still not invented
since we are mostly busy deciphering our own language
words are self-fulfilling

I’m caring my annihilation safe
in the silence of nails
in the exhaustion of tools
of axes
and all the other love words