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indifference, thy name is
18 November 2011 @ 12:10 pm
I am very small. It seems like I have lived nearly all my life depressed and incapable of understanding the world around me, jumping through hoops blind and deaf. But I'm also pretty sure that's just the human condition or some shit. Now I have been in college for eight years. I am exactly the same as I always have been, except I think I'm a little better at writing, which is not to say I'm actually good at it but that my skill at it, however low you judge it, has increased from what it was. Now I must try to publish because there is nothing else I can do. I think constantly about beating myself to death with various objects, sometimes sticks, sometimes chairs, and also other physically impossible things, like lifting myself up by the collar and throwing myself out a window, because it is impossible, unlike buying a gun and shooting myself in the head. I'm not exactly numb but I think, just as far as I can tell, that I don't feel things to the same extent that other people feel things, and definitely not the same way. Mostly I feel: amusement, despair, and irritation. I have stopped seeing my therapist and I have given up on the anti-depressants and mostly feel the same as I used to, maybe slightly worse. It looks like I am going to try to be a journalist. Not a journalist like Hunter S. Thompson, but also I will try not to be a journalist that writes about pet shows. I need to lose weight and I need to apply myself to my work instead of sleeping all the time. I am exactly the same as when I was ten, but better at writing. I haven't grown, I am mostly dead, I am a little less sexist and racist than I used to be.

Soon I will be 26. I have accomplished nothing, drained many resources, but possibly entertained or helped a few people along the way. In one sense, that is all you can ask for. In another sense, that is kind of totally a miserable failure of life. I think constantly about the world being a shitpile, in which there are buried many good things. But not actually a pile because that implies some sort of accumulation, some sense of accomplishment, even if it's all shit: it's more like a shithole, which goes deeper than you can imagine, but really it doesn't matter how deep it goes, because it's deep enough to drown you and that's all that matters. I think about how cynicism isn't wisdom but if you don't have wisdom you might as well have cynicism.

I have stopped writing poetry but I am taking the poetry class again in 2012 so probably I will have to write something for that. I am trying to build up a portfolio of shit I can submit to someone because I cannot stay here forever. I don't want to stay here forever. I don't want to go anywhere else either but I'm not going to stay here forever. That's not the same as wanting things or having passion but goddamnit I'm not staying here. That'll have to do.
indifference, thy name is
09 March 2011 @ 03:55 am
Somehow, there is very little to say apart
from longing for the swords that used to be in me.
Steely veins, pure and true,
six of spades; feel it with your liver, your unmentionable organs,
feel it on the inside, for real.

As with all growth, there is inconstancy.
Dissolution, even, the spice of decay.
Until the finer edges
feel nothing.
Until the sky is heavy with calling,
and you would drown if you weren't so diffuse
(the space between a star and its heart).

There is nothing to trust, so everything is worthy.
Press into me,
I will explain with little bites
all the words I am not saying,
all the choruses there are left to kill:
"Time spoils. Look at the stars,
crumpled spiders in dusty fists."
You and me. A Markov prophecy.
And in Arcadia I'll be.
indifference, thy name is
29 December 2010 @ 02:16 pm
it's the distance of fish, the perfection
of thought. why should a woman
look at a flock of bats?
the animal need to ask for help
outweighs the knowledge
that there's no help to be given.
It doesn't stop anyone from crying.
You make those sounds because you have to.
Because there's a part of you that, when doused,
shrinks like snow, leaving in your palm
a fetus-shaped tumor, yourself small
as a nut before your time began.
The kind of poison that slays mermaids
and sends us one and all belly up
into the surf's slow lick of foam.
indifference, thy name is
12 December 2010 @ 06:44 am
I was taught a dance today. It is called
the three step rape: easier than alcoholism,
more enduring than eggs sunny side up.
First is the rape itself. The violins still
but the sounds continue. Then
the examination, eyes pressing
into the ceiling, dry constellations
out of reach of everything, including desire.
Finally, the questions.
Spine bare to the brush of a coat;
"Look over my shoulder."

The dead don't sob like children, they
eat their grief like worms.
I put my voice in a box of thorns,
and you hug me
instead of me hugging you.
indifference, thy name is
26 September 2010 @ 10:53 am
Pet names, diminutives; I
love you, I always have.
Kissing you implies
the pressure of an ocean,
the darkest trenches where
monsters lie.
Pendulum in a watery prison,
slow, you pass me by.
So self-sufficient, the sound
of returning rings out
into seashell-curving ears,
and where I lie on shore,
eating the salt
of long dead years.
indifference, thy name is
04 June 2009 @ 03:36 pm
My neighbor keeps mowing his lawn.
His wife died. This is the
ritual of the green. Inside his house
where I have never been,
more rituals that I do not see
take place in dim corners,
soft corners. He is
old. Straight lines never brought
anybody back. Still, he has
the best lawn in the neighborhood.
indifference, thy name is
25 December 2008 @ 01:39 am
deep corners. I sink, number eight
in a whiskey tumbler, in your tropical fish tank,
held together by the pressure of the sea.
I feel the planet swing on a long string,
slow as the sun.
Faster on the leap year days I spend corkscrewed
through the forehead, right into the wall.
pass me by. god, I pray,
pass me by.
indifference, thy name is
06 November 2008 @ 04:29 pm
Burnt fists in the withering black,
it is the twilight of our war.
The sky unclenches and gravity, undone,
releases the stitches of your hips.

Exeunt to the cellar. All the pale things
sewing without the lamps on:
seraphs pressing coals into their eyes,
a child slowly drowning at dusk,
one arm oracular in its final beckons.
Queen of the air. And air is ashes.
Stay dead, I told each scar.
Forget what we are.
indifference, thy name is
14 July 2008 @ 09:29 am
this measured time travel, she sips
slow as embers, their
glint made home to her eyes; disaffected.
Charming hostess with a molotov martini,
hands aging in a tangle of wool.
there are no certainties for mere mortals.
no guarantees from the enigmatic
grey-eyed bitch who first stole him away.
well, her hands were made for weaving, too.
skein by
skein, backwards,