Poetry

Fuck.

You can sit.

Or you can run

from that funny feeling,

that dark, twisted truth,

that uh, oh, it hurts again,

like a throbbing back or a cremated face.

Dr. Man call it fibro-my-al-gia.

Call it a friend,

invite it into your bed,

fuck it hard and find peace.

It’s coming, it’s coming,

that little death, that funny feeling;

sip it away with songs and shots of secrets,

hit it and quit it,

run in the morning

because you looked them in the eye,

for too long, it got near,

twisting itself inside your spiral pupil galaxy.

Forget the rest and run from the text

with a quick puff of Earth’s green god,

a yeasty devil in the gut,

slaps of spicy sensations —

calm in your veins, it comes alive,

that little death, it comes alive,

that little death, it’s in my room, it’s in my bed,

that little death, that little death,

it’s in my head, that little death,

she feels so good, he hurts me so,

that little death, it hurts me so,

he feels so good, she hurts me so,

that little death, that little death,

it hurts me so, it hurts me so,

it hurts me, so it hurts me,

so it hurts

and then it kills.

Fuck.

---

Mighty Pen

The time to write

is now.

With your language,

understanding that you understand,

that we understand, that we understand.

But no, no,

I concoct shapes of written silence,

strangle your mind to know mine,

like a philodox // phunny // and phucking // sure that my // *here it is* //
belongs in your soul, (in The New Yorker) // (everywhere and anywhere and elsewhere)

and, or because, what I am is not you.

I'm sorry you can't understand me, my words are just too smart.

My commas, so thoughtful.

---

Why

is a broken word but it runs

despite the ankle pain

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