I can’t stop smiling,
No, I mean, I can’t stop, I really can’t
 they’ll kill me if I stop
I wish I could explain this
I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry
I have to keep smiling, because they’re watching
And I don’t have a lot of time
I’m not trying to sound self absorbed
It just all comes out of me
Ever since I started drinking coffee
My days have been one long
Enema after another
An Enemy after my anus
This is real life, this is mine.
And though it smells, and though
It is so eager to escape me
I love it
Did I just say I love my shit?
Is this how poets rationalize their inner sadness?
With words?
I haven’t been gaining any weight. I keep gorging this food
But it’s like I’m pooping it all out. My ribs show in the mirror
And my hips have sunken in, as if my waste
Had been literally stored in my waist, and the more I poop
The more I take on a disturbing, hour glass figure
If this continues, I could be a model. I could go to New York.
That’s what it takes, that’s how you make it.
Somebody help me, I don’t want to die
Someone take me to the poop doctor.
On the toilet Is the only time
of the day that I’m still
Or even truly alone enough with myself, to focus
To calm down,
Without being fed some irrelevant snap
Of information. I go there now, not just
To relieve myself of fluids
But to flush away all the broken
On the right side of the sink
On the floor, the tiny corpse of a spider
Has been on his back, mummified
By the Clorox I sprayed on him
Several weeks ago. He’d grown too
Large for sympathy, just as I have.
I recite the first half of Hamlet’s soliloquy
Into the mirror, To be or not to be,
Though I have no answer, I imagine
That weeks from now, I’ll have it all memorized
And when I stand up before my thesis preachers
For my final presentation
That is all I will say to them,
And with tears in their eyes, they’ll understand
At long last, what I’ve been feeling.
What I’ve longed to feel,
Let’s make art that’s grounded in the world
Stay informed and make art that’s relevant
Refresh the page of the New York times
And also, look outside the window, and blink a lot
And close the curtains, and then open them again
To check if anything’s changed
Has the sun gone down any
Have the street lights turned on
Maybe a bird’s landed on a power line
Maybe there’s a dog being walked
Maybe it’s a puppy, and if it is
You get to run outside and ask
The owner if you can play with it
And they say yes, because owner so lonely
That’s why he got the puppy in the first place.
Do you know what’s happening in the world
I don’t know, have you heard what’s happening
On Neptune
They found traces of water on mars
They found traces of ammonia on Neptune
In fact that’s all they found
Let’s go to Neptune, because
Everyone there is probably dead
They found traces of life in new York
Only traces, but there is still hope
There’s a theory that California is really
Just a black hole, or that the coast really starts
At Nevada, and that all those people, who go
To California are just walking out into the waves
Like enlightened cows, stoic, brave,
Slow And full of faith.
And California has been a code word for death
This whole time. No one in California
Ever leaves. When is mommy coming home
Mommy went to California, sweetie, she’s never coming back
And someday, when we’re rich enough, we can go to California, too
And see mommy. Grandma’s also dead, but she’s in a better place now.
I can see the bodies standing up right, dotting
The simmering waves, like navy blue dots in the sun
 and they continue, in a caravan
Upright even past the horizon, where the sea floor
Must be miles deep, how enchanted, how cult like
Now, any time someone mentions California,
I can feel the divine aura. “I’m planning on moving out west,
To California. I hear San Diego is beautiful this time of year.
The people out there are just so kind.”
so matter-of-factly
I place my hand on your shoulder,
If only I had such courage.