A body of work
under your name
but I do not know
who this is for.
it is summer here
where I’m at and
I tried to fix the bike
but the same rusty touch
keeps coming back.
today I am telling
an old story: yelling
yes, and I miss you.
our things that puzzle
parts of others’ desires,
comparisons, fears,
and simply thoughts. it kills us.
dears,
you may have noticed
but ours is always
the calm before the storm.
I know exactly where
to fold and place the
sticker. the rules are
that you can’t leave
the person unless
the picture makes sense
as a whole.
then when would be
the best time to
potentially forget
everything you hold?
there is a cure
for all this nuance.
there is a hole down
my throat.
no, I don’t have the
time to not be
myself again.
if not this,
what else
would you call
an apocalypse?
what else do we say
when comes
the elephant?
something so big
has to happen.
(for me to write)
something so small.
we embrace it,
not asking. we pack
our questions and we go.
knots mount.
you have to tell me
what happened
when the trip ends.
maybe some note
has to be written,
maybe then still, we fall.
is that leaving right there
in the crowd looking at us?
ah I thought
you’d like her.
she reminds me
of a noise.
shifting from a small bag
to a larger one,
how clutter works. how it doesn’t.
why stay in places
if not for people?
why don’t we leave if
not for yourselves?
yes yes, I’m letting worries
come surface, that’s all.
writing an inventory of
the knowledge to
be exchanged by
the end of this world.
now we seem to have
it all figured out.
this which could have
only been constructed by
your own material anyway.
I just don’t want
to look back and say,
I used to love.
how unpleasantly present.
as told to me
by someone else,
still my own story,
as heard by someone else.
Gotta continue
your day without
the premise
of other people around.
I said day, not life.
As to me dictated by,
I hereby confirm
the end of
your contract.
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