Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

I myself should never have been born

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster