Every night, before falling asleep, I perform a dramatic monologue to the fuzzy patterns of color that I can barely see in the darkness. And, excited, I force my eyes open for extended periods until the shadows and shapes transform into nightmarish figures. But it’s not the shapes that keep me awake while I fall asleep, but the deteriorating stories that take place in my mind. I have several dinner conversations with people who often times remind me themselves that I can’t eat food while in my bed, and that’s its rude to invite them to dinner and not even be there, and then to not even speak to them, and instead just imagine that I’m talking to them while I fall asleep.
I love to be alone when alone,
But I hate to have another accompany my solitude
When I see them, I feel compelled to tell them
How it pains me to be alone
The manic juggle of absolutes
There is truth in the pattern of my being
There is truth in me, but I,
Being a part of the pattern
Cannot identify this truth
I declare the birds to be heavenly spies.
One tries to speak a truth
As if it will become separate from themselves
To liberate itself from the pattern to judge the whole
Rather than chase an inconceivable whole
We must expand upon its fragments
Deconstruction undermines the medium
By which we discuss deconstruction. Logic that
Undermines itself in order to find a truth
That it says cannot be found.
There is a Dionysian skeleton in me.
Beyond our impressions of connection and separation
And generalizations and rules, we must consider
All information existing to itself.
The word, and all words, are trying to escape themselves
In their attempts to become real,
Rather than be symbols, abstractly strung to reality,
The words become their own reality, and we must accommodate this reality by describing it with additional words, and so on.
I love to be alone.
I’m alone on a bed in my brother’s old room.
Tomorrow is thanksgiving.
Most people get together with family.
I am with my mother, everyone else is far away.
A rectangular gash in the wall above my pillow.
I meticulously sealed the open air-vent with paper
And double sided tape. I saw webs in it and I
Fear spiders while asleep.
Hello feeling of being alone.
I am remembering old days.
Forgotten people who I can’t seem to let go
I feel alone, yet I love it, even now.
I love to suffer in my own mind, like a sauna, or a deserted island.
I love to force the sensation into simple words
So small on the page in front of me
I am small enough to fit on paper
Or so the writer assumes
I feel as light as a dream, I am as light
As a leaf on the ground, I am blown
Away and again I say, now that I am
Writing, this moment is its own eternity
Someday I will find a girl, my biology tells me
And I’ll share this with her, if I can
I realize I feel unreal, eyes that look inward
This is a moleskin sketchbook. Someday I’ll grow old
And die. Reality is itself, stars exists. So do other worlds.
Someday I’ll reread this and be amazed at how much I knew.
Hello,
Wrinkle on the page
If you were my world, I’d bend
You a bit further, or all the way
And make a wormhole
My pen is beyond reckoning. Sorry
–My painis beyond reckoning,
I do not understand it.
It’s as if being has left me
incomplete, as if I long
for death. At least I don’t
Have Huntington’s disease.
There better be a heaven.
I remember when I was a coward.
Each moment of cowardice stays in me
A thousand stones in my kidney for later
Or not, I feel unreal. I feel unreal.
I didn’t talk to a girl in the eighth grade
And on a dare, I’d vomit from the memory
Unlike kidney stones, I can’t pee her out.
Two friends trapped in a poem.
Behold: the incredible journey.
He built a city around the open vent, a whole city.
To keep out the spiders, who, upon breaking
Free of the original paper barricade by way
of gem encrusted ram, were dumbfounded
by the metropolis, and its slums.
Its crevices and alleys, forgotten rooms
and open stone windows, the archways
and stairs, and somewhere around
in a room, two friends.
How are you, my dearest friend?
I feel as careless as clouds
against the azure sky.
The what sky?
I don’t know, I cannot recall such words—
Why are you talking like that?
Oh ye gods, I do believe we’re trapped
In a poem of all things, not a city, but a poem
To trick us! Mere spiders caught
In a foreign kind of web.
What kind what kind!
–One of words, I believe, just look:
Now I’m just the letter “A”
–I “C”.
And spider A and Spider C, shaped
In the letters of their names, teetered
Out the open door, careful not to trip
On the jagged brick road, below a moon,
Above the twilight of a dead city