A pool with an orange
life vest–
it is all becoming a series
of images,
that confound belief
and fool the eye.
Material for the
next iteration,
I say I’ll blow the guy
so I have something to write
about next week
and have
enough of something
to confess a narrative to myself
that I may or may not believe.
Unmoving from a bed
that is not mine
but has my name written all
over it,
I want to catalyze all things
into the egregious grieving that
I know they deserve,
starve myself of all delights and
binge
because this body
is no longer enough
to not be suffering,
and to suffer is sexy
and to share it with everyone
is even sexier
so I’m going to tell you
that
today,
I am scared,
that sacrifice does not yield
enough poetry,
and that all the world
is being written for us,
and I am not fast enough
to stabilize it
all into congealment.
Rimbaud said
“A thousand dreams within me
softly burn.”
Authentic
and kind of hot,
he was a good poet,
according to my
novice Google Search.
If I don’t want to be
rich, then I want to
be the best,
and if I don’t
want to be the best,
I at least want to be
sought after.
“I choose to see
the other light
behind the orbit
of shadows.”
I said.