DEAR KILLING NARCISSUS / WE DON’T KNOW WHAT HUMANS ARE LIKE
Dreaming my life away today, sitting in your pine tree. I woke up in the hills today and walked down to the riverbed feeling like I was writing you. Feeling like we ducked into the shade against a large brick wall refreshing the newsfeed. Angry and sweating. Do we get some coffees, I asked no one, just to feel like I was thinking ahead. When is it controversial to write my death is inevitable, you yelled. In the empty fields, we feel alive. It could be about thinking ahead. Ghost-bed, I COULD FEEL every pore, I YEARNED FOR every pore. DID YOU SHARE MY COMMENTS. I could feel the rotting already. What if it was your pine tree. You could go about your business knowing I was there, expressing me there, and once and a while glance out a window, seeing me there like clouds covering hills.
Everything looks at everything. When I am dead nowhere. No human is a stadium (we don’t know). The construction of a displacement. What happens when life is a bag, who knows, who knows. Life is already a bag….anyway you know how I hate empiricism. I almost never leave my room. I am saying this because I’m beginning to love you I don’t want to see you anymore. Kathy Acker interviewed Spice Girls and said it’s up to them and people like them to “keep on transforming society as society is best transformed with lightness and in joy.” I just want to eat clean food and love people xoxo
THE PAIN OF DIALOGUE /
The call comes in waves. Placing the right hand over my ribs, slowly towing down. To remind me I’m not authoring the poem. I lift my shirt in the mirror to see the expanding bone. Eel grass submerged by the force of a thesis
a building that was stopped short in the remote field. Circling like an annotation. I want to save my obsession with you (eel). I can do it without lying, I can create on top of your life. Do you see how this song discharges. He says you’re no machine / He says this ATM can drive its own screen. Its red summer battery set soft on the trail. Its surface set in its own right. Its redress set as I drag the code thru the gorge
Um, in the train overwhelmed by the smell of basil. The place to want to be like oh hi, family, this was supposed to be kept from you
Remember the internet, the images of the droughts, a childhood developing by default
They both carry guns, she said, this was about a bad American partnership, one that everybody saw coming
The question of how we live after death is not a new one
THE SKY’S DARK BLUE CHARITY
Echo smokes a lot and stashes the butts. She writes a lot of poems and posts them on her Myspace accounts (2003). She has the deleterious pattern of creating profiles, uploading content, to then deactivate them after a few weeks. This anti-archival proclivity maybe comes out of a childhood of ecological anxiety. In this way, written seriously, pleasure is a thought on a cold beach. We must advocate for each other.
Laughing down the dirt roads behind the schools, Echo and Narcissus collect used smokes in the front pocket of her backpack for later. They hide when seniors walk by, breathe in the vitality of their hollering from the shelter of tall grass. “We will never die,” he whispers to her stomach as they lie on their backs and watch Venus rise from the horizon. Waking in the dark covered in dew, Echo stands up and finds her way home.