to the gods i let die in your atoms
to the morning coffee i didn’t make you
to the ghosts of mouths, to the ghouls of hearts
    the never love you the way i did
to the neurons i burnt out along your spine
to the forest fires of my contempt
to the one way tickets tore in
    the depths of
    the memories i trashed
to the couldn’t get rid of you
    the couldn’t get fucked up enough
    the it’s never too late
    the i don’t believe in goodbye
to the self-respect i gained
    the meaning that i lost
to the cross country treks and
    the hundreds of empty people
to the poetry melted on my tongue
    the verses i never wrote you
    the verses i did write you
    the letters i never sent
to the rotting on the desk, next
to the drugs, to the drugs, to
    the universal forget-me-not
        of all that is my pulse

political essay: “in the US we are not taught to lust: for wander, for others, for self”

I am standing in the great ball room of the universe. I am staring at all the billions of entities in love. Biting my tongue. The DJ is playing your favorite song and I am thinking, “I’m standing in the great ball room of the universe, staring at all the billions of entities in love, and the goddamned DJ is playing your favorite song.” I’m thinking, what are the odds. I’m thinking, of course of course of course. It has been approximately 344 reincarnations since I last had my mouth on you and the great becoming of my neurons still gurgles your taste come morning. No matter the hang over, no matter the one night lover, no matter the company. No matter the letters I’ve written to no avail, the poems I’ve made grenades of. Your favorite song is ending and I am thinking, “I am not the same person anymore and you are not the same person anymore, but this song is the same and it’s the only consistency I took from you.” I’m thinking, play it again. I’m thinking, one more time.

i keep the window open and the coffee pot on, all the time, so
i don’t make coffee anymore and i don’t know what to do
with the bird carcasses on my bedroom floor, with the

well, i never meant for this to happen anyway
and as nice as it is i can see the stars from my balcony(
it doesn’t mean anything anyway), and as nice as it is
cigarettes always run out, coffee always gets stale,

bones rattle, tongue diseased, sense of self
deceased and bed ridden, contracted the flu, never
look at myself in the mirror unless i have to, but
not for the same reasons as a year ago

every new year’s starts breaking a sweat in september;
october is a catalyst for november who knows it’s the month
people realize “oh i never did anything did i” and december,
she’s a body bag to get rid of before january, the first, the

i’ll do better, i’ll feel better, i’ll love harder, i’ll fear nothing
this year, this year, always this one and not the last, never
"i did better, i felt better, i loved harder, i feared nothing"
because if past tense had anything good to say about us
the future wouldn’t have anything to sell to the present

well, i never meant for this to happen anyway
well, who does

leave me absent in the brick and mortar of your philosophies; what i mean to say is that i take my nail down the tragic of your spine and make you stand again. what i mean to say is a fistful of your hair, a bruise to your hipbone, the rattle of your ribs rocking protest for your heart, that battered and bitter mistress i lay relics of longing in the chambers of, i wind the chains of your monster round my neck and meditate to the you of your human, that bastard who fucks so well my cunt is nothing but a throbbing token of gratitude toward the admiration i hold so dear to me for your nature, for your filth which thrusts degradation so well into the addicts you’ve made of my arteries. and one day your madness will clot what good is left in my heart and i will meet the atoms of god with a smile.

and so kiss me hard in the back alley of my “never would have” expectations. and so breed your palms into the industry of my thighs, into the monopoly of my monotonous atoms, into the culture of my curiosities, my introspective nature which proclaims your vulnerability as a noose rung around the wrists of my melancholy, of my “never would have.” and so bend me to your will, and so blur the lines of morale, of immorality, immortality, i mean if you fuck me like this for the rest of time will the wormhole unwind itself from the polarity of entropy, from the deeply rooted who am i now that your mouth is a constant in my state of mind; and so it is, and so your heart is a constant i can depend on, your heart is a constant i know will be there come morning. and so believe me, my heart is a constant that will be here come morning. and so for you, for you, for you, my love, the most intimate of my being is a constant you can depend on.

there’s you in the rear of my cerebral cortex,
you in your lifelines, your recluse, your webbed

debris of ineptitude and—

oh the earth was here yesterday but now it’s not
and i don’t know who i am today so
no mister missus you cannot love me
no god you cannot make me and—

a word with you in the bathroom stall
2am, international house of pancakes,
"have i told you lately how                         vast
                                                             space is?”

no but can you help me find my brain, it’s it’s it’s
in a vat somewhere, left it on the computer desk,
next to the cocaine, next to the ghost of dignity
rotting in the floorbeds of yesterday and—

this is how you say: I’m a lot better now,
healthier, eager-er, er—

some mornings the sun is my only lover,
some nights the moon is an ER i left
too many stitches unravel in the seams of, this—

this is a chemical compound that replaces
the murmur in my heart now intrinsic, seismic
declaration of independence the root of my
pulse doesn’t know how to morse code
goodbye to, and—

translation errors happen all the time, it’s the
spinal fluid of this poem, the guts of my
all-inclusive me, the the the—

stutter, the mutter, the matter and anti-
matter, excuse of my hollow chakras and—

yes i am more than this and—

yes you are more than this and—

yes my bones are an open invitation
you are free to let your sin dig its claws into
if only it means i get the taste
of your incurable mouth
one—
last—
time.

i’ve been learning a lot of inside, a lot of looking where things come from when they resonate in the first place; think— big bang, i have become big bang and interstellar galactic. now all i need to do is become a sci fi author and live, breathe, die by atwood. now all i need to do is put my head in the oven or a gun to my head and all the poetic prowess of all my heart’s damned metaphors will be worth the pain they took to feel. look at my emotions rock climbing terrain shooting stars aren’t familiar with. there are dead zones in the earth and one is lodged between my ribs. it’s black marrow, it’s the sound the wind makes when it goes by but doesn’t say hello. nothing says hello anymore, no welcome, no stay, stay, stay. i’ve been pawning all the relics in my bones worth anything to black market propaganda, to the 9-5 wishbone my conscience fucks a ritual into; think— big bang, serendipitous with the big pulse of god, with the neurons of ecstasy, with the black marrow sound of wind the vacuum of all that’s solid left in the rot of my self, of myself, of the carnivorous arteries eating me alive. and do you hear that, god? your children are self-reliant moon skippers, are stardrunk and shot up on the disappointment of being too much themselves.

I sit down beside her and she talks— a flood of talk. Wild consumptive notes of hysteria, perversion, leprosy. I hear not a word because she is beautiful and I love her and now I am happy and willing to die.

Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller