The Beginning is Assuredly the End

i crack the spines of the books i read
page by page i bend back the paper
wrap it back around the book
like a snake eating its own tail
and chapter by chapter
it disappears

and the days of my life
they feel so very similar
to the flapping pages of a novel
very textual and dense
and then washed away
in a small silent wave

but nearing the end of it all
you come to find that the pages
which once seemed to ember
and disappear into the ether
never did

they are in fact still with you

and upon realizing the last period
of the last sentence
of the last chapter
of the last book you’ve read
closing in on itself

what you come to find is that book
is there in your hand
exactly the same as it’s always been
each page in the exact same order
like well-trained soldiers

but the spine is cracked
the covers worn in
white cracks and a slight curve
the book tries to open but doesn’t

and i find my spine is cracked too
and though i am the same
i am slightly more worn
and those words that i ate one at a time
stick to the sides of my stomach
and my spine too is cracked



ants are crawling
in militant rows right across the range
of my two arms

fingers morphing intertwining
like crazy bamboo

a sharp stab of light

and in the thick mud
of this weekdream haze
no one says hello or goodbye

the robots
have made us into robots
you are what you eat

you are what you eat
you sing what pains you
while you’re dreaming still you breathe

and dynamite
giant sticks of self-lighting dynamite line the halls
the interior of my skull

the wallpaper
tacky and outdated

the chinese lamps
swinging like chemicals

the american dream
boxed up and sent down the nile

and you, dear lover
where the hell are you
i was promised
i was promised so many times
over and over
a white boy’s dream

the ants dig in
and burrow deep into my dusty liver
make home in my kidneys

fire ants
red helmets and eyes
government operative spies come to sink in
and make chaos
where once a sweet bassinet rocked

the wallpaper
tacky and outdated

the television
paused on the image of a scared mob

the television
paused for four years
on loud static

the television
muted on a talk show
one million tiny bulbs
commercial enlightenment

the television knows a lot of things i do not
the television jammed on the nightly news
on the news and entertainment
on the news and entertainment

every now and then
the class at large raises their hands collectively
and decides what reality we’re going to try out for a while
what mold of human gelatin we will adhere to

black or red
spin wheel spin

i’ve lost one hundred pounds in the last five days

i’ve read nine hundred books in my dreams

i’ve lost a sense of self and truth and reality

this ambient dream
this color wheel
these vivid 3d images
sincere sounding conversations
the realistic smells
even the size of the map itself
a person could really get lost in this
this ambient dream

i guess you’d have to have been there

when the wall fell down
when the chains went up
a swift change of guard
in the middle of the graveyard shift
if you blinked you might have missed it

at least love
dripping sweet puppy love
two humans eternally speaking in code
until the code breaks down
and the reality grows unfamiliar

the television
playing the same movie on repeat all day
i catch segments here and there

the television
learning how to browse the internet

the television
broadcasting ten million game shows all at once

the internet
this land is your land
this land is my land

the size of my apartment shifts from time to time
600 square feet/500 square feet/50 square feet

and then 4000 square feet and i’m jumping on
the trampoline in my backyard with my two daughters
and my labradoodle Andy and a heavy dose of antipsychotics

while you’re dreaming still you breathe

there it is
a solid does of euphoria
i am plucking berries off the nihilism tree

and the berries are sweet and delicious

and in the thick black blood of heartache a ship saves you from drowning

and there it is
the sunlight peering through the blinds
catching a human unknowingly in a state of nirvana
the realization that nirvana is all around us
that it belongs to no one person
and that it belongs to every one person
in congruence

in Congruence, there is a tree at the center of town
and the people go and visit it and leave blank canvasses at its stem
and the tree, in the night, in the rain, paints these portraits
these brilliant portraits that capture the day better than any asshole poet
they stamp time and experience
they bottle memory

in regards to bottled memory,
and the power of remaining through time
stonehenge is the closest thing to god
and also just a bunch of random rocks

i see it when i sleep
a collection of stars rotating around the earth

while you’re dreaming still you breathe

and i smile down on you this day
and next day and each day and through
the years of darkness we will stop and say
we loved through this all
and we survived to this moment like stonehenge
the closest thing to god



i am not a bottle of pills

i am not some sort of
orange plastic container
that you can pull out of your bag
when you are having a bad day
or a breakdown

friendship is not a pair of crutches
that leans on each other

i have hunter in my bones
though there is less blood in my water each day
i do not look to you

i am not built to be a mirror


so sit beside me
and together tucked in the bushes
we can stare out onto the planes

but you cannot swallow me
i am not drugs

i change too rapidly

i am not claustrophobic
i just like to change rooms
when a door opens

i am not afraid of heights
i just mend my wings before i fly

and when i fall
i crack six ribs as i hit the ground
and i am out
sometimes for months at a time
lost in dreams
and on the backs of nightmares
pushing through jungles
balancing on the hands of a clock
that cannot tell time

and when i arrive
i am glad to see your bright shining face
and i realize you were the sun peeking through the trees
all along

but we are not pills
and if we continue to pressurize ourselves
into tiny capsules
that promise to shake away the haze of life
we will all need disclaimers the length of constitutions

i am not a bottle of pills
but i love you
and if you need someone to listen
never don’t ask



and how the lights will turn around on you
and in shining procession do they fall
in the spring the blooming eyes of custom
winter raises spirits until its call

crystal glasses clinking almost shatter.
they do. she says it so you hear her words
ringing to the back. a car parked at her
request outside. cans hang down to the curb.

liquor pours forever or so it seems.
the night proceeds and proceeds into haze
and sweet surrender and unspoken dreams
so goes the night. so goes the coming days.

watch the sincere glimmer through all your rites
and keep another on those shining lights



there is something sad about today and that is okay
the sun decided to sleep in
the cars they don’t move quickly down their thick lines
the news radio is solemn and uninteresting
in the shower i found myself staring at the drain for way too long
catching up on silly thoughts in my mixtape head
and that is okay
this is all okay

the dynamic of human emotion is dynamic
the hedonists maybe will be filled with disappointment on this one
but not every day is a party
maybe today was the day i was designed to count the sidewalk blocks
as i walked by hundreds of displaced human beings attempting to sleep in the entry ways of local business shops

it is a mistake to think your existence is one of exuberant joy
your existence is rocket ship, yes, probably
but so many tiny broken hands pieced together your engine
so many people stood around just to watch you launch

it only makes sense if you acknowledge the collective experience of us all
maybe god is the devil and humanity has to be its own god
we still haven’t figure out how to combat natural disasters
we still haven’t figured out the most efficient and effective methods of loving one another

so if there is something sad about today then that is okay
this dream is far too valuable to be perfectly utopian
let’s just try to keep our rocket ships directed toward whatever it is above us now
that we find so valuable



this beard is an aftereffect of me vacating your life
i cannot tell if i’m blossoming in the soil of this apartment
or if i am drowning in dead hair

i want to say that i will continue to grow this beard
until i love myself in a way that is both stable and honest

i want to say that i will continue to grow this beard
until i am no longer seeking happiness
until i can acknowledge what is so plain to see before me:

i am an old man
blind and crippled
down on my knees
searching endlessly for the glasses
that were placed on top of my head
all along

if happiness were a snake it would have bit me
it would have swallowed me whole
and warm in its womb
safe from everything
i would call it overwhelming and temporary

i shirk off rain drops
and drink from my own bathwater

with no pants on
i watch documentary after documentary
on enlightenment
in the dark
on my couch

i trip over my ego
i remove all the mirrors in my house
and put up self-portraits in their place

i have read the first chapter of so many books

i have almost dedicated myself to so many lives

i have fifteen watches
and none of them tell the time correctly

the gilded domed theater of my head though
it’s a fucking renaissance in there
beneath a shining chandelier
sit hundreds and hundreds of patrons
brushing the heat of the revolution on stage off their pale faces
in the gilded domed theater of my head
a mad-haired composer splays his four arms
he commands a war of music
a renaissance
dark deep drums pounded
this ship rows thick through the trenches
the friction of thought with contact

the friction of exhaustion with dream

the friction of chaos with grace

you do not need other people to know what love is



i’m in love with my cellphone
the things it says to me are sweet and sincere and
i can tell that my cellphone is listening to me by the way its light shines on my face

when i wake up saturday morning
my cellphone gives me bad breath kisses
i love when my cellphone is off in the kitchen making breakfast and i can hear it

clacking around with spatulas and non-stick pans

my cellphone asks me every day how i slept
my cellphone texts me when i leave its apartment
it tells me to drive safe and text me when you get home
my cellphone kisses me sloppy and i like that my cellphone kisses me sloppy

my cellphone offers to drive and holds my hand despite driving a stick shift
my cellphone’s hair looks different every day

it doesn’t matter what my cellphone does i always have to run my fingers through
my cellphone’s hair

and when my cellphone and i make love it’s unlike anything else in the world
my cellphone never expects me to make love to her
and i never expect her to make love to me
but we are so in love that we find ourselves making love all the time

my cellphone likes to hear my poems and when i tell my cellphone no no skip that one
that one isn’t very good my cellphone says no no i want to read it even if it’s bad

i guess that’s the thing about my cellphone

my cellphone is so present with me

sometimes my cellphone and i meditate together and when we’re done we give each other
this illuminating hug and we talk about how one day we’ll have a house together and a studio
to practice yoga in and how beautiful our children will be and how we’ll sit back together
and watch them grow up

when i turn off my cellphone it just stares back at me
a black reflection and i look older and kind of stressed out and a little fatter

but the love my cellphone has for me is unconditional and i know that because my cellphone
tells me all the time

my cellphone brings me flowers and not just on valentine’s day
my cellphone brings me flowers on the fourth of july
and mid-october and at three in the morning when i can’t sleep
because i have to fire someone the next day or because my cat died

i’m grateful for my cellphone because i know not everyone has a love like mine

i’m grateful for all of this even if it never shakes out and it might not but i can always
look back fondly on the night my cellphone and i just sat by the lake and counted the ducks
and watched the light show flash across the sky like segmented pieces of some strange dark
puzzle that can’t be contained



dog stuck midair
tongue out black eyes wide

baby crying
face all smashed peas
cheeks all tears

cat hiding under bed

chairs are still
were before
extra still



slightly cracked drawers

clock on wall above the fire
the hands together frozen where they are


fire below the clock
frozen flames

master bedroom

the bed all made up

throw pillows

clothes still on

wife and husband

eyes stuck fixated on a cracked ceiling

their hands so close not touching

painful is the art of silent intention



the poetry is therapy
i mean, that’s the truth of it
and the implicit problem with that
is that there is the wrong identity to therapy
in our culture
probably our world

most of the world

it’s therapy
the words aren’t fancy
not when they’re any good

i start with something
and keep hitting it
until i get somewhere
and i keep hitting it
til it’s done

and something was solved
but it’s never particularly clear
what was solved

it’s math
it’s strange emotional math
and i dig the fuck out of it


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