“This thrash of spring we drown in to stay awhile & mean it. I mean it when I say I’m mostly male. That I recall every follicle in the failure the way they’ll remember god after religion: alone, impossible & good.
I know. I know the room you’ve been crying in is called America.”
“Inside my head, the war is everywhere.
I’m on the cliff of myself & these aren’t wings, they’re futures.
For as long as I can remember my body was the mayor’s nightmare.
Now I’m a beautiful short loser dancing in the green.
You think I’ll need a gun where we’re going?”
“For as long as I can remember I’ve had a preference for mediocre bodies, including this one.
How come the past tense is always longer?
Is the memory of a song the shadow of a sound or is that too much?
Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I imagine Van Gogh singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” into his cut ear & feeling peace.
Green voices in the rain, green rain in the voices. Oh no. The sadness is intensifying. How rude. Hey [knocks on my skull], can we go home now?”
“I won’t pick a side my name a past tense where I left my hands for good oh it should be enough to live & die alone with music on, your tongue to jump from anywhere & make it home to be warm & full of nothing,”