western sins crafted for consumption, or my salvation: poems

these shapes look OK; circuitry for an awareness to flow through
writing as divination, not explanation; writer as waterfall,
a place where consciousness becomes concrete; how glorious
to write without trying to control the material, a prayer
recognition there is no reader or deadline, freedom to not
make sense—freedom from being read anywhere else,
anytime else than here and now by me, “I”, you—
making you; constructing the reader in my solitude,
summoning her, or him—a brother, confidant, colleague;

— — — — — — — — — —

a woman (is it you? Where have you been? Inside
me is an emptiness loud; I am all men looking at
screens and figures, living in days, stranded in mo-
ments) is strong as a thousands suns
that all swallowed the story away, nursed it, carried
it, a burden to lay down in an imagined dream home
with a dream partner; of course the dream falls apart
when the dream other is a person, i.e. broken, annoy-

maybe not even poetry can save me this time
yet I sit with my unsavability; I can say nothing to you
but “there is no exit, we are here, and live on piles of
literature, experience, proof, facts —
“it’ll come back later” it was once said
but “later” is now, there is no later and never was, it’s only today

the truth is true
and there’s past you haven’t let go of
or found a way to deal with
and why shouldn’t it take up all your page?

— — — — — — — — — — —

hoping to learn this by the end of the day
but thanks for all the great tweets everyone
oh, i can only write what i’d never say to anyone
i am owned by this work and working
typing is more noble than writing by hand
more mechanical
more undeniable
clearly attached to your name

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

now, the divorce between work and perception;
the space between writing and publishing
between doing the thing and being seen doing the thing;
if you understand that this key distinction doesn’t take up more than one line, one brain cycle ~ to make the train change tracks, one little button-press, one move…then all we need to do is make sure we can all endure to go back to the job site again and again,
and a beautiful society that smells of
women’s skin

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

i think this is just practice formation,
spacing stuff out; practice, remembering
how simple it can be to translate awareness
into content for no reason, for the sound of it,
to endure the day, to thank consciousness for
being here again today after so many yesterdays
which of course aren’t real, aren’t distinct from here;
history is the lie—no one wants this truth today, everyone
so busy with their jobs and survival then the news, every one
of my friends I imagine miserable, striving, keeping up with email,
wondering, agonizing; maybe I’m wrong and haven’t seen them in a while;

— — — — — — — — — — — —

i’m in trouble because I’ve waited so long
I’m on the edge of a field
it’s cold in the field
there’s a house over there
inside is everything I could ever want
and they might even let me in
and I might even get in
after five minutes I learn the hard way, the feeling way,
I can’t stay

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —



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Geoffrey Lewis

filling the blinking cursor with whatever comes up, letting the leviathan lead me to glory, singing popular music covers on video on Smule too, speaker, rambler