if you know any philosophy majors, pray for them


I could be the cosmos.

But what then?


this will end up fragmented someday

and what would you ask of me – that I not betray myself?

that I not reject the eternal froth of illness and woe that bites at the back of my throat – that I not seek to rend the wiry veins of a pitiless, passionless creature back from the tips of my fingers and the whites of my eyes?

courageous, congenial summer triumph, your feet will soon become snared, for the outskirts of my vision are a mire of traps, and nothing which I behold retains the shape with which it was conceived.


meme war

and I only like to talk about the sad shit when my world is suspiciously quiet, bolstered by cotton or unmarked hours or the heavy scent of lime;

I only talk about the sad shit when I can touch it like a rope of pearls spread across a satin pillow reflecting a thousand melancholy whispers in each sphere – each sphere, taking up a certain amount of space in each eye with a certain amount of weight in each hand

I yammer on about the fucking spherical shit that I want to put in my mouth and crush into my skin and make some sort of surface that is no longer reflective but potent and makes your irises adjust


this counts as a social experiment

talking pages;
words are printed there, and can know their meaning.                                                                ‘ball’, ‘dog’, ‘run’, ‘gone’ : “never coming back again”

“never coming back again” printed on a line,

instances of black and white, juxtaposed, empty.
sometimes there is too much room in the margins. and faces begin to appear, because they were never made up of space but of life and vibrancy and pain.
and when they spoke they used more than words.
their names were more than words.
‘are’ or ‘were’;
death is more than a word, and i am


making plans to drink too much

you read yourself in the gold-crusted words of narcissists; humming their benedictions with innocent submission to their cosmic missions of suicide; I can feel the world growing wide in your eyes; sense the way each bone in your body becomes a conductor for the will of the child’s mind; they taught you to seek a sanctuary in low lights and racing hearts, but they never thought you’d make it so far without a single word; now their words belong to you – you take them for yourself – you wear them like perfume; they cling to you, and you cling to me


major prophet

Even I was a being molded for nobility. Even I was concave, seeking the weight of that which came from heaven; primed for the blight of that which was holy.

It was just that I discovered a better source of pain.

Seeking the image of a creature bereft, I recognized instead the bounty of “man” – that they are given first what they snare between their teeth; second what they hold in their open palms. And I understood that I had been feasting for decades.

Is it I alone who can give my hunger a proper name? If not, dare I share the feast? For none could bemoan my false burdens like I do. None could know my nauseous raptures.

But – “Ah, tis a balm. Tis a current. Tis a voice.” The assuaged have woven their nets in which to catch visions; they do not use their hands at all. But I have no use for such contraptions, despite my need for them.

On a great mountain top, I make great declarations, “There are none righteous. There are none who understand.