Can’t stop crying

Fuck everything

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

the certainty of your goodness

sleeves

snotted down blanket

chewed up counselor

bringing, wringing, bwrought. potatoes and stuff for samosas. a time machine. yourself. September nouns transition-word-ing into February nouns. if you count the poem in these syllables, something will happen

pause

clench

Stole two organ donor eyes to organize my disses. Now there’s no insight in-sight, diss-organized, Mrs.

me and I miss

two deep breaths (draft 4)

followed by the first real d e e  p   b     r        e             a                     t                                  h

pulling onto two pant-legs like the opposites of ripcords that will flexion the parachute you folded yourself,

but maybe not skillfully,

mostly through             browser tabs.

here’s to the creepy guys who square their hips towards the middle of rooms and bark about how the best defense is a good offense, for all the wrong reasons what they’re saying is true, and here’s to the trivial sounds that i hear in my head that bark about                                                                   , for all the wrong reasons what they’re saying is extremely fucking false. they say it’s:

ahh cake-trim astro-turf

emptyyah band-aid box

sort of knowing

dont worry – it will only last 250 milliseconds. you say that a fancy science book told you that. but ever since these apes started getting their kicks off of a screen – worse, off of reading ambling lines of provocative prose – fakery is the norm