It’s about independence. It’s about sovereignty. It’s about ruthlessness. It’s about peace. It’s about suffering. It’s about truth. It’s about lies. It’s about, I don’t need you to know what it’s about. It’s about–none of this. I don’t–do you know what it’s about?
“Feet of Clay”
I have forged myself in hell and I’m not afraid to say it.
Did it have to be this way?
Of course not.
I’m just telling you like it is.
Wipe the blood from your nose Youngblood.
I already told you.
“Dylan’s Inferno”
I is the only problem.
The idea that you exist is the problem
In separation of anybody
You will carry on after your body has disappeared
Because you are the indivisible that
Change eternal
Permanence is a delusion
Any and all ideas of permanence are the cause of all our suffering
We suffer for what?
“I”
Wants us to drink rice liquor. Dinner table of a five-story townhouse. Works for the UN. Has been to my country. X bashful.
Just one of those if we must sir. Only if we must. Can of “Hanoi” goes to my head.
“Chef’s Kiss”
for the discerning individual, seasoned to taste, served with a smile
a part of me, as solitary as i am, as uninterested, disgusted, appalled, apathetic, about almost every one, and every thing,
i am still, quite terrified of being alone
not because of the solitude
but because i quite literally become some one
or some thing, entirely different
and i fall through the earth
Two worlds.
“Fine Cuts”
Paralyzed. Take me to cookie cutter island. Can’t hear the stark reality of it all. Afraid, aware, too awake? Something wrong? Thinking this is wrong is the problem? I don’t know
Nice cubed squares. Smutty ink. Preposterous mind fucks. What does it all mean?
“Anti”
And so it’s back with a vengeance.
This rubber banding–its elasticity is increasing.
What have I done to cause this?
Nothing at all.
It just happens, like a haunting.
A haunting because I have become forsaken, in forsaking the world, forsaking its people.
“The Haunting”
No excerpt.
Silence . . . silence . . .
Oftentimes I avoid it, trading it for the pleasures of music.
But what a sacrifice.
What a misstep.
Even now as I write this work, I merely date and do not title.
To shout at the wind as if to speak magic words: one seeks disappointment knowing they’re to be wisped away in the arid, predictable flurry.
“Goodness Gracious Me”
I wanted to speak with you, but I’m not sure how because I don’t know who you are.
You don’t?
No. I used to think I did. But that wasn’t really you, was it?
No.
Another ghost?
Yes.
Then whom do I speak to now?
“Ghosts II”