Tuesday, October 20, 2015

i hate waking up to this: ungrateful for the
real-self and its life/ungrateful
for the evil twin and its fake-life; when it

does anything, it plagarizes. no rhythm.
nobody believes me. "too much rhythm,"

they say. and to polish, i'm practically

a college student, busting my back-end
for the future. my mind has

turned to cement. i gather this has meaning,
if i want it to. but goddamn the cracks in

my skull? from pressure.

all true thoughts mostly come
from the stomach. seriously, follow
your gut. it's impossible

to get fucked up. yearless, gleaming
paralysis- captivated
purity. content rains. i laugh. the brain thinks.
it's about to be winter, which

is daunting because it's only october,
but the leaves rustle.
i'm feeling better about moment-apocalypse
already.
suffering
is an offering of reaction. the go-to is sanctimonious, as old
as man-kind: pain (body and eyes bright and wavy underwater). without it are other choices. with it

i could kill myself so i have to switch gears.
no matter what, suffering
is felt by everybody alive. it's the changing,

the reservoir unexpected,
alive
nucleus, whipping itself on its own saddle- destroying totally,
and also not destroying at all
at the same time. what are you talking about?
well, listening to the same cd over and over again
of course. keeping secrets

that are to be attended to before all else
secret. the to-do list
presents bulletpoints of the been-there,
will commit to that again, until

i just stop seemingly unreasonably.
(secret not listed: "look at phone." ) rise, feared pink-pheonix.

you, far older than your name.