maybe you would like me?
immobilized, incapable of doing
barely of even thinking
stuck on repeat?

the truth is, I see things from every angle.
this or that?
good or bad?
I see it both ways --
but think of it sideways?

this mindless complexity of ten billion permutations
-- a defense mechanism, mind you --
gives me the confidence that I do not need to do anything,
ever,
since it will always be wrong
and an alternative will always be right
and wrong.

maybe you admire me?
after all, I never do anything hastily
after all, I never do anything distastefully
after all, I never do anything.

the truth is,
I have thought through this quite a bit
more than you know
and I can't make up my mind about which angle to take with you.

the truth is,

you are what I want from every angle.

scaled up and congregated
gets my judgment, but scaled back and isolated
just means my fears unseat
the remaining ways you reach to me

holes in your hand ain’t there
hand on your side, I swear I’m scared
still say my prayers each night
yet the less I sleep the less I fight

pressed up against the truth
“I’m insufficiently devoted to you”
still grappling the facts
”my heart is black, I won't come back”

yet we repent.

along a bridge covering dirty water,
a girl with black hair brushed by me,
completely incidentally.

later that night I imagined myself
in a majestic game of chess
which failed to follow any of the conventional rules. It was at that point that I abandoned analytic assertions in favor of nonsensical poetry
and very quickly discovered that I was capable of discovering pride,
especially when encouraged by my fellow
inspired idiots and an acquaintance named Lydia
whom I have since lost touch with

for roughly 18 months my brain transformed into something that, even now, looking back with a great deal of fortune and maturity, I believe was brilliant.

I can pinpoint the exact moment I abandoned my inspiration.
it was in a breakfast club by the rapids
where I glimpsed the rest of my life,
and God named me Solomon, offering a menu of perfections.

my budget was unimaginably extensive and yet I failed to notice the small flap in the corner which would cover the item I might covet most. I missed this flap precisely because I was concerned about a hot surface and rushed through my selections out of an abiding abundance of caution. I do not necessarily regret it.

I have everything I want
— except inspiration.
Mirror, be my muse.

toward you,
my love.
toward you.

one lovely morning I lost all my grip
on every thing that held me back from you,
and one by one together we would strip
out every thing preventing our renew.

one fancy evening I recited some
words written much more eloquent than these.
and as the background turned for both us numb
we heard, most truly, our both love and pleas.

you may assume I’ve thought just once or twice
about each promise you spoke to their please,
but once or twice could simply not suffice;
I’ve pondered each word as soliloquies.

my dearest, listen to my always thought:
you’re the loveliest thing, I know, I’ve ever got -
the most magnificent thing to have I ever will
you’re my darling, my wife;
my music, my hope, my thrill

Three hundred thirty six miles I drove;
Manchester’s Orchestra kept me on the road,
and I hoped if you looked me in the eyes
you’d not say no.

You’re the queen
in our kingdom’s cathedral.
I’m no king,
but I mean well.

I took this Rose and held it all too tight.
Well, I felt perfect every single night,
until you told me
“you hold me down.”

For a time we lived in ecstasy,
had the impression that you’d never leave,
and when you did,
that you’d come back to me.

I’m the king
in my crumbling kingdom.
You escaped
when the ground started rumbling.

I hope you’ll call me at a quarter to nine.
There is no longer any doubt in my mind:
if I could see your face and hear your voice
I’d know I’ll be fine.

I claim to know of resurrection still,
and so I hope and pray to God you will
restore
what it was before.

We’d be there
in that imperfect kingdom.
I’ll hold on
Until the day when you come.

From time to time I would pretend the choice is mine.
I’d walked into hell; ’twas my own knell;
I was foolish thinking I’d be fine.

I took the long view until my God tested me-
Now I’m short-sighted, but I’m trying,
And that’s just the way it has to be.

I used to think that there was something good in me,
But now that’s done with, I’ve been punished,
And I’m waiting just to be set free.

I saw and heard the dazzling clamor of your intimacy — and we indeed accept adversity.

pawn (Other) to A3.
“Sir, I have spoken too soon. That
Enemy has moved beyond us
In Passing.”

B4, C4, etc. etc.,
and thus we see some difference between
Repetition and
Abiding.

I remember the first time you fell asleep while I tried to talk to you
(but first, a quote, [...]):
“I can’t keep my eyes open, and you just want to talk, can’t this wait ’til the morning[...]?”
(no)

as I was saying,
the date was May 31,
(how did it take so long?),
and

I’m sorry.
I had an idea from a poem, but when I saw May 31 and I remembered what your idea of fun was and your hatred for certain things I love,
I wondered how we even got here in the first place.

nobody ever stayed up late for me.

“[...] where bright lights abound and a conquering spirit returns to this hollowed out cavity.”

and happy birthday to my mother.

“sir,” replied the waitress,
“the chef has declared
each item to be
exactly what you have requested;
though previously eaten, it is
no less special.”

thus have I come upon this
insight: love has moved beyond
the discontinuous, the new -
and now, I must simply
abide
with joy.

his only good shoulder.

he is begging for
help, help me he says
help me please help me,
but they make him help himself.
so he did, putting
me in a

hospital bed.

and I, too, hate this man-
his murderous fury has
ended the precious life of
a handful of souls,
a basket of souls,
a world full of

souls.

but as I see him in my
vision, I cannot help
but wonder if it is all
my fault, your fault,
Adam, poor Adam’s

fault.

and suddenly I remember
where I have seen this man
before: it was in
the marketplace, september
nineteen ninety
seven. he was there with
his daughter and she
tripped and scraped her knee.
later her mother blamed
this poor man for the scraped
knee, furious with
accusations, yelling such
profanity that even you would

shudder.

so she left with the daughter
(sometimes), but more importantly
she took his favorite
book, the name of which has
long since been forgotten,
but I would not be
at all surprised to see if it was

utopian.

thus the weight of
the hatred ought
not to be on this man,
but on me,
on my very wings
which I,
so privileged and loved,
was given from an early
day,
so that I could fly,
so that he could

die.

nevertheless, following a series of negotiations,
he proceeds with me through a gate which somehow
magically establishes that I am not dirt, I am clean.
these thoughts remind me of a poignant disdain for
modern technology that I had on the supposed
airplane which brought me here, but I will allow
that thought to be expressed in a sequel or a
postscript.

as I enter this hollow shell, empty of utility
and reduced only to a mere image of images,
a rush of emotion suddenly strikes me.
suddenly I am a child again, glaring at
a girl who loved everything but me and
I realize now I can hardly be identified with
that child, because now I am staring at a girl
who loves nothing but me (and certain other
easily lovable necessities).

as I recognize I have known this place on at
least one prior occasion, I wonder what other
beauties in this world I have witnessed and
shrugged off as mundane. suddenly I am an
amateur writer again, looking up at a cathedral
in France, a place I love as much as any.

I do not forget my ever constant fear of jumping
towards my inevitable death as an elevator forces
me to ascend, ascend, up and up, I will be at the
top of the world soon, soon at the top of the known
world.

as a child, I was afraid neither of heights nor of the top of the world,
yet misery?
as a writer, I am afraid both of heights and of the top of the world,
yet joy.

with such an extensive prelude
in mind,
I invite you
to consider the
duality of
meaning/lessness present
in my previous work.
for the purposes of
utmost clarity, we
will cease excavation
of the third, fourth, and sixth works,
which exist merely to disappoint,
and besides one is probably unwilling to discuss the supposed underpinnings of a philosophical development which begins with justification and ends with the unknown, a development which we have seen paralleled in the works of sir Julius Augustine, that unlikely fellow who wrote not only the entire works of Shakespeare but also an æxtant manuscript known only today as “Mark.” despite the alleged humor in such a name, nevertheless such influences are quite alive in the three works which will not be discussed, nevertheless they will not be discussed.
I am
unsure of the
condition a fool would have to
accept in order to accept such
demonic thoughts.

think firstly
on enshrining by carbon,
the beauty enshrined
by further beauty merged
with destruction
of the most beautiful.
for what might this cause fear?

now consider a trip
in which one’s posture takes the place
of the dead whilst concurrently swimming
through a solid object
which causes water
to flow.
furthermore, imagine the death
of a village celebrated
by the self-proclaimed savior
who saves by exit.
how could one not regret?

finally ponder the
terminal being. despite such
an anonymous entity’s necessary
nonexistence, we see in
the fifth work,
the finest work,
the conception, not merely
in mind but
in body facilitated
by a norwegian bridge.
yet we are surely aware that
such bridges do
not yet exist.
of what then does it speak?

with these questions
in mind, I
invite my reader
to promptly
examine the nearest sofa
and determine whether
it is firstly ethical
and secondly mystical.
in doing so you will
have accomplished nearly
but not quite
not as much as
I am
taken to have done
in the past several days.

I conclude with these words,
supposedly written by myself
on october twenty-fifth,
two thousand twelve,
though I must disclaim
I have no remembrance of their
content:
“The interpolation of my life as rational,
Gentlemen, hear me out.”
thank you for your time.

and it hideth that bright sun
whilst stealing its great light.
and it shines apparent shimmer
against even darker night.

the moon is no yegory;
it is rather apep.
with supposed great gestures
it calls me to forget

to forget not just sinners
but the justice friends too.
may those who cry out for mercy
be reduced to taboo.

so let misery commence!
and let good men go bad
and let bad men go badder
and let all lose our dad.

and let deception reign king and
let us put up no fight.
may we call, at last,
for an end to the light.

–
[postscript]
but the sun still shines
elsewhere.
so I will travel
there.

what’s that?
I can’t – the reason I think poetry is I – hear you over
the people yelling about christmas stories or love or money

the reason I decided to write tonight
is that I was trampled by a mass of people
so I walked into the bathroom
but it was too late
so i started shaving my face
but I cut myself and put a bandaid on it
but a bandaid is a mask
and you were not with me
but why was there a woman in the bathroom?
and why is she talking about
how retarded her child is
when he seems perfectly okay?

I’ve not shown up like I may have promised I would
But it is simple; my thoughts are muddled
By the overwhelming perfection of

her face