Monday, October 19, 2015

garbage mosaic no.01.

the feudal system: many fences, digging into
hard-to-describe...arbitrary-bloat- perhaps that's
what i can't quite put my
finger on? one can travel away from this. i'm floating


the secret pond. eternity. leaves change colors.
golden-grotto. the chill is crisp. miracle-babies.
it doesn't matter
that i can't get the hang of swimming,

for i don't feel like shit about it- not here. let me be
the new amphibian- i have no sense
of outline; there's no pattern
of containment. all the fluidity? sure, rivulets- carry
the leaves and me too.
carry genetics (which i fucking love): the nostalgia
my memory

views as computer graphics.

i like

to advise people
on the first date that i am a catalyst for pain. without

making mistakes purposefully,
there is no way out. sitting shiva in caprice, and the
to-do list concerning such,
the walls close in because i picked that up

from movies- life imitating art, passively
ignoring backbone out of keepsake
of inevitability- gutter-flowers, blood of
thorn-drive in many spots

of my ungloved, dried-out already
wintered-in hands; full bodied
myrrh, frankincense. never use it, yet too

embrace the moment- there is no way out, anyway.
practice patience.

raise the threshold. gardenias and peonies
come back to life like they do

every year.

and nothing is fake anyway, only read into past vision.
a proven falsity
lobbies its way onto tv.

one minute of sex? not good enough, they say. well,
i reply-talking to myself- i don't have

a sense of time anyway, and having one
is nothing to be proud of.

i let go of my
eighth layer of skin which is

a plastic bag over my head. i do

so much in one minute
that i black out

during the second minute. the whole time, turns out

all i can see

is faces. the doctor never said

i was blind, but i am, apparently, this
whole time. somehow, it was worth
breaking the news to myself, rather than

hearing it in oversized scrubs: faces, faces, faces
are all i know; have grip on.

do i still get to be an anomaly
upon silent expectations? of course.
i'm better off with

philosophy, broke, living up to
only my own standards- the ones

delivered from the encouraging-voice. i do not
live up
to inventions i misunderstand- and i'm better off
this way-
soaped-up scavenger-wings- who have no
choice- but to scavenge.