“You are an explorer, and you represent our species, and the greatest good you can do is to bring back a new idea, because our world is endangered by the absence of good ideas. Our world is in crisis because of the absence of consciousness.” & “The syntactical nature of reality, the real secret of magic, is that the world is made of words. And if you know the words that the world is made of, you can make of it whatever you wish.”
- Terence McKenna
darling, i am a serial entrepreneur. i wake up in the body and mind of someone new every day. must you not know this of me yet? my spare time is spent devouring everything there is to know in the world. do you know how much there is to know of the world? it’s dizzying. i don’t know how we all get up every morning and go to work. i don’t know how we all don’t just stop in the middle of the subway and start kissing each other. i don’t know how i make it through days like these without hugging strangers and believing in god again. darling, i look at the clockwork of my chest and think of ways to make it run better. i succumb to poetry like it’s a disease, convince myself the only cure to it is ridding my bones hollow. riddle me back into your heart again. i’ll keep writing until we’re real again. i’ll keep building things, empires, whole fucking nations, until i am full of you. darling, i am a serial lover. i wake up next to the body and mind of someone new every day. must you not know this of me yet? i have chosen you time and time again. i’m waiting for you to know what this means.
the heart is a sentiment i don’t understand. i think i’ve been loving myself the wrong way. i don’t know how. i buy coffee in the morning for my liver, tell it, “i’m sorry i haven’t been keeping you warm. look around. stop being selfish. you aren’t the only one.” i looked at myself in the mirror and tapped into the rock of my collarbones. said, “come out. we’re ready. all of us. we’re at your command and aren’t afraid of bad days and make believe stardust.” i think to myself, frighteningly. shaking fits of human. i think: what happened to me that i learned so well to pretend. i think: must i be mad at the world or forgive it? i think of philosophy and pretty flowers and a mouth on my neck. i think of my mother and my big brother’s back the first time he walked away from me. i think of my lovers chanting in unison since i was twelve years old: you’re too much. you’re too much. you’re too much.
the heart is a sentiment i don’t understand. tell me about it. don’t stop talking. i don’t know who i’m talking to or if i’ve finally gone mad, but here goes. i’ll brave the whole world for five seconds of my chest being translated to a language i understand. i must stop sometime. i’m tired.
if this is what poets and philosophers and writers are made of, poison me. the heart is a bastard. give me something of sense i can submit to. i’ll give it my all. take my goods: throat, womb, mouth, hands, mind, and cunt. do something profound with it. break me in half. scavenge what’s left of me. i’m sick of giving myself to the wrong things; “i am human!” i demand of my heart. fuck it until it listens. please. i’m begging you.
i. You were fourteen when you fell in love for the first time and it was too young, darling. You’ve always been desperate to find profound things. You will discover the unfortunate truth: love is not profound. Love is made of all the things you hate: conformity, pretenses, and a promise to be home on time. Stop searching in the hearts of girls you admire. Profound will not be found there.
ii. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never told you I’m sorry. I’m sorry I know how to tell you I love you, but that I don’t know what it means. I’m sorry I made promises to you I broke and I’m sorry it means you can’t trust people who promise things anymore and (mostly, mostly) I’m sorry you grew up and broke promises, too. Didn’t I teach you better?
iii. Yes, I’ll smoke a blunt with you. Let me make supper first. I know how to do more than heat up TV dinners now. I want you to be proud of me. I didn’t lose the house this time. I took my meds this morning. I didn’t pawn your guitar. I’m taking good care of your little brother. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. Do you hear me? He won’t go through what you did.
iv. You ran away on Thanksgiving when you were 17. Dinner is still waiting on the table for you. All your favorites. You’re welcome back any time.
Hold my hands. Forget the cold (God has) and let me touch you anyway. I’ll warm you back up soon. I want to drink coffee with you and burn pages of books that disappointed us next to the fire. No, I don’t think I could do that. Stop coercing me. I’m the one talking here. You make it difficult to speak. You make me swallow barbed wire. Do you not think swallowing barbed wire hurts? It does. It fucking hurts. But I do it for you. I’d do anything for you.
Just promise not to forget me when I’m comatose. You may not recognize me; it’ll be the first time you’ve seen me stay still since you met me. There’s no need for you to hate me for that. Don’t you understand? I don’t know how to exist like this. Cold, cold, throat tore, stomach unsalvageable, no scratch marks anywhere, no bite marks, just me, me, me. Do you not think being only me hurts? It does. It fucking hurts. But I do it for you. I’d do anything for you.
the truth is, i’m just really good at playing pretend. i don’t know that i’ve ever entered humanity. i don’t know that i believe anyone that’s ever told me i’m good at being human. i, i’m good at being a friend and i’m good at fucking and i’m good at bowling, but i don’t know that i’m good at the other things. i don’t know that i amount to anything other than a half symbiotic relationship bred between the bastard child of inertia and entropy; what hellish kind of ordeal is that for a heart like mine? i think i perpetually punish myself and i, i don’t want to anymore.
the only thing i’ve learned with absolutely certainty is that i believe there should be no shame in things which make us feel good and i really don’t like living in a world where pleasure is supposed to be earned or bought or forged or made anything other than natural.
i don’t know that there’s anything in this i’m saying which makes sense; it’s a muddled disposition, it’s a composition of everything i haven’t ever wanted to say out loud and i should be writing other things instead. i’ve got work to do and i’ve got a mind to nourish and a cunt to pleasure and a mouth to busy and hands to create with and as much as
as crazy as i am, at least i’ve got that. maybe i’m looking at this all wrong. maybe that’s as human as it gets.
i’m better at this when i’m drunk. you’ll have to take what you can get.
the first night we fucked, i believed in god for .07 of a second. i bit into the nape of your neck and prayed that heaven felt half as good as this. i’m good at pissing people off. or making them not care anymore. i don’t know which one i do most to you, but i know i wouldn’t mind fixing your breakfast in the morning if you actually liked breakfast. i know that the sound of your voice is enough to get me wet, or make me safe, or scare me half to death. i like the instability of your unwavering agenda. i like staying still on the carousel of your irrational decision making skills; it’s a reminder that the sun was born a baby, too, and now she feeds a whole planet. this is why it’s not time for me to have children yet. my maternal instinct was born from a supernovae of never knowing how long i’ll be safe for. things like that don’t make sense. i get off topic when i’m too scared to tell you what i’m really thinking. i’m better at this when i’m drunk. i just wanted to tell you hi. i don’t know where you’ve gone. i miss you.
everything i’ve been writing has been an attempt to save some time. i think that every rhyme has been an excuse to pretend that i’m closer to you.
it’s not my fault. while everyone else was learning how to hold hands, i was building bridges out of metaphors and burning them.
i’m a crusader. i am a maker of thunder. i believe that the whole world is an open source application for a better humanity. i believe the inside of my brain was soldered incorrectly.
i keep sane by repeating mantras to myself. tiny and inconsequential, like: you’ll be okay today. but i have a tendency to argue. i say: no, you won’t. i say: you’ll be fine today. i say: no, you’re lying to yourself. i say: shut the fuck up once in a while, won’t you?
if i pretend i have conversations with myself it gives rationale to the logic of my messed up head. the truth is, i’m just getting ready for bed.
The front shed of my heart is a disaster. An imposter in the improbable nature of renovating that which cannot be fixed. I’m talking ammonia mixed with bleach kind of fumes that make lovers say goodbye to me when I just stepped off the train. My main use for it is negligible; philosophical coffee table rituals with the naive hope of fitting in here. Somewhere. I lay awake in the middle of the night often. I lay awake trying to soften the lighthouse inside me; I’m convinced only tragedy comes out of seeking safety. It’s how I cope with loneliness. It’s why I drink coffee in the morning even when I know it’s bad for me. It’s a show of my testament to continue onward, toward something more meaningful the core of my me finally has a reason to let everything go for. I’ve forgotten about all the other Gods. I’ve been courting Atlas since I was five years old. I’m standing in the garden underneath the front shed of my disaster of a heart. An imposter.
I am trying to say something that makes sense. Let’s keep walking, I’ll talk until the sun says hello and we’ll get coffee from McDonald’s like the rest of the world does. I don’t know what it is about you, but I feel like I can say anything and you won’t stare at me, so I’m just going to say it. Say it. I’m going to tell you everything. Wait for it. Be patient. I know I’ve got something in me. Something worth paying attention to. Just fall into rhythm with me and count how many cracks you can find in the sidewalk or something more natural, like let’s look inward. Wait. I don’t think I can say this standing up. Sit down with me. There’s a bench a few blocks down from here we can sit at and I’ll tell you all about everything that means something and when we’re done, you’ll have all the answers of who I am and you can decide whether or not you want to love me. I mean, that’s the big deal, right? I mean,
I am trying to say something that makes sense. Let’s sit down, I’ll talk until the sun says hello and we’ll get coffee from McDonald’s like the rest of the world does. You won’t have to wait too long. If you get impatient, you can fuck me until I find something worth saying and I promise that even if I’m in the middle of a climax, I’ll tell you everything. I don’t know, maybe I just need something inside me for things to make sense. No, that’s not the impression I want to give you. What I mean is that
I am trying to say something that makes sense. I’ve written half verses of a dozen poems today and none of them meant anything like what I was really trying to say, so I’m going to keep talking until something comes out of me that means something. I think I’m losing your attention. I promise I’ve got something in me that you’ll maybe fall in love with and we’ll maybe live together and you can maybe get bored of me six years down the road when we’re getting coffee from McDonald’s like the rest of the world does, but until then, maybe I’ll be able to say something meaningful. I’m just going to say it. Say it. I’m going to tell you everything. Wait for it. Be patient.
you woman of heart all solar pulsar and no calm winds. shipwrecked and left dying on the curb of all the dreams you ever had
i try kissing you. i try fucking you but i can’t get deep enough. i try loving you but i can’t get deep enough.
you woman of heart madman with razor teeth your tongue traces when i’m not looking
if i open my legs wide enough if i put a bullet in my head will you believe me any more than you do right now or are we all spilled wine and incompatible humans fooling ourselves into artificial submission
you woman of heart don’t you understand you just took a few wrong turns i’ve fixed your goddamn ship
go sail the seas go dream all of your dreams go, go, and maybe you’ll come back after and maybe i’ll be here who the hell knows maybe i’ll still be here
i am avoiding it all. everything. i don’t have enough peppermint in my life and i have been wanting to swim naked in a waterfall since i was a little kid, but you know what? i don’t even know where peppermint comes from and i’ve never even seen a waterfall. i’ve seen cops and fists and beautiful things, too, like a funnel cloud in my backyard and the ocean and how the earth looks when in an airplane. i think the only reason my grandma never told me i’m always waiting for too many things is because i was always waiting for my mom to come back and who can say mean things to daughters who only knew a mother as an institution and flushed crack pipes? and i grew up and tried drugs, too, and i still don’t understand how it makes you leave your own kids, but i understand it feels good and i didn’t mean to even talk about this when i started writing, but it’s the day after thanksgiving again and i’m avoiding it all. everything.
sometimes people ask me
what i believe in more than
fucking, a good high, and a pretty girl.
i always say: gun powder.
a mushroom cloud big enough
the whole world can hallucinate.
the imaginary wars on terrorism,
drugs, and student loans.
what’s wrong with me
i am meteor and dinosaur bone
nobody knows how to preserve.
my body is an ancient dialect
closed to the public
and damned to volcanic ash
i have spent decades trying to understand.
there are days i am
to black holes i
fucked into submission.
i am a mosaic of hidden temples
dedicated to radioactive gods
the world no longer believes in.