how to get yourself up and out of silence and loved and paid and safe
can’t do it, won’t do it, shouldn’t have to do it—your pain and fear are a map, and a slumlord (see, i’m already wrong and poetic; a savage and serene dance, some nonsense, literary and desperate, frail and elegiac, word salad yet customary, orderly, could be filed in the great marble halls with today’s date, and they’d say, well, yeah, sounds as crazy and desperate as the feelings must have been on that calendar date! And so it is—but who says, and who cares? I want a severe punishment from someone who threatens me; there is no enemy; I want one—there, the next place to inspect, but I can’t zoom out and take a rest, can’t just figure it out for today then warm-sigh and fall back into grace; well, Yes, I can—it’s God, it’s Luck, it’s the family I hated for so long, it’s the Me, it’s You, it’s Us, it’s country—deflated, defanged, maligned; this is therapy, a scream, a nightmare, easy to ignore, thank God it isn’t important, just guts, breeze, roadkill, forgettable, thank god artists are just children, a shame really, a national shame—the real heroes are…ballplayers? Military generals? Public servants! Yes, lying politicians greasing their wheels; ah, I only hate them because I don’t see them; the only thing I hate is my laziness, cowardice, childishness, lack of responsibility; I am the site where hate foments into structure, endurance, professionalism, the banality of being good. I send this because I have nothing else to do, believe nothing else, am nothing else but liquid hope flying to inboxes, a flare in the night, stupid, two inches from the drain, bound for disappearance. Good morning.
P.S. but this is a lovely piece of stone to put your foot/weight on and push off of, for another chapter of the Herculean flight to the sun (shouldn’t we kill the old myths? What words and phrases should we be saying five times fast to accelerate the proper reprogramming of culture, for the kids and the elders, for this batch of living humans, as the sun rays threaten to burn through ozone and heat up everyone, melting bodies like crisped pinkies (baby mice), charred; it’s wicked not to care — I’ll discover a little later in the day’s reading what evil is, how it works, why it’s in me, why I’m the bad one, how this should all be lyrics, how I will get up and out of my soul