Monthly Archives: February 2013

draft of self-portrait

I think I’m
a fine dust

feeling when I think

I’m music
feeling
anything

fracturing and dissolving
when touched

like a peach.

I’ll re you,
I’ll fa you.
Do you note me

where sensations stand a chance
of being perceptible

without artificial light

now very much so
something different
something like porn music.

I’ve been paying attention to the sky
again tormenting the structure of my silence.
Time’s like yr voice cycling

in the present. No star falls
out my mouth            “an abstract painting
of a line allows us to bounce off each other

throughout night. I am distant
because the clocks can’t respond
when I’m trying not to shatter.

I wonder what it means
not to be here, to be
the things I’ve abolished. My body keeps becoming

the object of a future dissolving like dawn
in the space of a comma
I want to be fucked by
the instant we touch. Can I even be aware

of how time makes my body delirious
world being whatever yr body voices
meaning
there is only so much. I want

to make it seem whole I mean
I want to seem whole

like a month,

a memory keeps becoming my body.
I, too, stand in the way
as poems ruin more than I ever like.

I like to collect memories
the distance between us

when everything is bright in Ypsilanti.

Teach me how
the iron dawn yawns out there
tattoo it on my back.

For now, I’ll dream
the past feeds the things
I can’t be

hidden in. I hope I remember to get
the ghost out of my refrigerator
before I see you again.

I’m not interested in staying
nor going. Is this not somewhat positive?
The grass is green.

The weather is
the memory of a kiss. I am
handsome from a distance,

a necessity for repetition. And there is
plenty of evening and yet
no blisters and dark color—

tomorrow, I’m everything
if filled of your phantoms like
yesterday. I’m coming to terms with

your name dissolving a warm light
in my speech drape the need
inside this absence

the things I’ve abolished.
I can’t inscribe
how I lost my body. I want to be

lengthy, though
the air’s obsessed with meaning,
seems thickening.

Every day is no beginning
again, spent in memory
without sweet talk. I am called

lava and water. I am everywhere.
The eucalyptus trees
in my heart could be loved

if I could be a priest
in the morning
as we become vague again

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Filed under Revisitations