We are grateful to the victors of the Cold War
who are not us. Leaning back to begin the deep
soak. It was all abuse hidden behind a good boy.
That he directed to gradually shake out of those
around him the method of interaction he preferred.
Believe what you say, whatever it is. The phasing
out of complex thought allows this to take place.
This is what I know, it is all there has been. I was
born in 1972. I have no memory of a peaceful
time. I keep writing. Fight tonight, over a party
standing in for a ceremony we completed privately.
Fuck it, I say, but the complications persist. What
is the use of fragmented engagement with other
people? I like moments that cut through my brain
spasms of self-conscious uber-pity. Drunk fuck.
Gully relations picket the fill in, the dirt poured
to level the ground, scratch numbers off to see
numbers, a book of prompts, wear me like, got
away with straddles, supertankers bearing the
consensus that is your name, and a powerful ally
it is, a bummer to realize the world might end
before you die, must head to gym and be being
that person who will be being me later than
a little later (sips Becks), it’s puppet serious
spur me along time. The index cards make it be.
I should have ejected these hideous clothes.
Fear of being the person who looks normal
but is in fact a wack-job, then acceptance. Looks
like we gotta do it again? Protest fatigues keep
back the hordes. They scream outside my window
they scream because they are wasted and live
far away. Memo: could puke any time.