Monday, March 21

Stuff I found saved in the computer lab

Concentrate,
As though the life and times we
Harbor aren’t part of the continuum of space it occupies.
Cry.
Cry like the first time your mother kissed you good night.
Like you realized that you didn’t love her.
Love her.
You couldn’t.
Not with eyes so arrogant
God would fear a listen.

This is the beginning,
Almost anything can happen.
Your pale indifference is the centerfold of my
Life’s dynamics and as I wait for you to decide
On whether or not this is real, cool, solid.

Flesh it out. Flesh it out.


There is no life here,
They’d say.
There is no life in the hobble hole.

Space is perpetuated by the constant flux of my imagination.







Worn

Wednesday, March 16

Words

People are dying.

I wash the blood from my hands,

Off the plump tomatoes.

Pieces of your life swirl with the pesticides down the kitchen sink.




I've nourished my body at the cost of yours.

But I have to move past this,


This immobilizing guilt.


Because people are dying and I am dying with them.