Why am I making myself do and be things that I don’t really want to? Because I have an idea of what I should be doing and/or I don’t have an idea of what I really want to be and/or do. And/or both. I seem to be very and/or, with an urge to flex everything until it loses what I secretly feel to be its false polarity. E.g., there is a such thing as good and such a thing as evil, it’s just that they aren’t opposites. Am I a good person? Yes, after a certain point, and no, after another. Deep down I’m just down there, a kind of gurgling black Jell-O that doesn’t have any idea of what’s going on up here. Up here I have on a baseball cap and have a vague desire to fix the closet door.
with no ill intention to the artist what the fuck were you thinking the mangy dog and the electro- magnetic implant fine! but replacing the u with the v? what a braggadocious pile of staten island’s finest piled up to intellectual affidavits — i once asked allen ginsberg should i be scared when the polish barrister holds a luger to my temple and demands fried bananas he said you’ll never move to krakow don’t fret my pet i pianeti della fortuna no ill intention to moloch or the electromagnetic swing the dog abundant and widespread in hungry this abandoned city in the days since the airing of ruth bader ginsburg coordinated inauthentic leaderless lurking evil the writer goes down the one true rabbit hole a meeting of senior government officials four cholinergic cherubs armed with radio poles lit upon the roof of the confident wannsee manor unclear if these birds are gripped fast to the edge of indivisible azalea branches or synaptic clefts between bit and byte cast totally aside countervailing rights — unclear unclear
In the evening of a brightly unsunny day to watch back-lighted buildings through the slits between vertical strips of blinds and how red brick, brick painted red, a flaky white, gray or those of no color at all take the light though it seems only above and behind them so what shows below has a slight evening “the day—sobs—dies” sadness and the sun marches on. It isn’t like that on these buildings, the colors which seem to melt, to bloom and go and return do so in all reality. Go out and on a cross street briefly a last sidelong shine catches the faces of brick and enshadows the grout: which the eye sees only as a wash of another diluted color over the color it thinks it knows is there. Most things, like the sky, are always changing, always the same. Clouds rift and a beam falls into a cell where a future saint sits scratching. Or a wintry sun shows as a shallow pan of red above the Potomac, below Mount Vernon, and the doctor from Philadelphia nods and speaks of further bleeding.
Source: Schuyler, James. “Greenwich Avenue.” Collected Poems. New York: Noonday Press, 1998, pp. 169-170.
she says i can cook vegan
she says savory
nutritional yeast flakes
harvested for good health
our face is probably the only thing of that scale
crushed red pepper flakes
our face obsessed in its desire for duplicate
i didn't choose this sacred hardware
our battle ax-thin XXX bride
prime butch dress cascading salvo
cachaça bottle thick hairy professor
in the window sill
she says the advertisements
to the confident are coming to
advertisers shake you awake
to all decurved contract workers both boy and girl please note we offer a paltry 401(k) cancer herpes kind-hearted flechette america the corporation complain the complaint liable to get nations flayed guilty imagination unspoiling brood parasite munitions nesting in an oval in a pit lazy dog iron heart suddenly unleashed starving detonating undetonating detonating ad nauseam decorated celebrated soft fleshy middle managers break’s over! tumbling from a cloud
i’ve stubbed my tone again against the edge of some other universe under the weekly farmers market near the free whiskey samples retired dentist who summers in santa monica who explains volatilization charcoal filters in his coronavirus mask the perfect gift for clark
i’ve taken off again around pluto in the byzantine eyes of man nothing to do wife away
i’ve glanced out again from my crashing self sea
i’ve named myself again spoiled oil spilled spinning top approaches edge gravity angel’s share bitter ship gasping heir to a ruined king- dom of collapsed arteries rough concrete sidewalk gone feral over rough dog- wood root