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ancient archaeological findings.
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SCRUFF.
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there’s something i need to tellyou.i’ve decidediwanttobeawitch.everythingin my room is older than i want to be. i’m stillfakingit.i’mrisingintotheairon thebackofanextinctwarmbloodedmammal and allicanthinkisohhell.lastnight i dreamed i had cancer in my eye. i sleep in piles of youroldclothing.ifilocked myself in your car, would you still press your hand against the glass in the same spot where i am pressing my hand against the glass? if theanswerisyesthenmaybe it’s not too late to quit smoking. i will be agoodthing.iwillmakemyselfagood thing.
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SLEPT. dark envelopes cast a warm musty blanket over dry grass
and everything else is unimportant
the fade of a lantern left standing
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LOVE POEM NO. 1. fingers curling in groups around nothing in particular
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met a big fat cat while thinking about death. asked him when’s the best time to fall into the ocean. not becauseiwantto,butbecauseireallydon’twantto. he smoked his pipe and kind of whistled. i think i wanted him to teach me how to paint signs, tiny ugly onesonstickynotes.i’llmakeupadumblanguageto paint signs in. when people ask what they say, i’ll makeupanewcleveranswereachtimeuntili’vebuilt upaquirkyreputationwithintheneighborhood.nobody will buymysignsuntilidestroymyself.whichmight be through willful premeditated spontaneous combustion. or folding into myself twentyseven differenttimesandfallingintoacrevice.itdoesn’t matter.theyknowithastohappen.they’llswayupon thehillandsayhe’sgonetoseethesea.theymight whisper my name in between mouthfuls of cream. while in the underworld i’ll always remember the old fat cat. i’ll be acutely aware of the ocean, and how little thought it gives to all the tiny ugly signs that i painted when i was an internet persona.
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i feel like we should be pen pals. or mythical beings. but pen pals can’t hold hands without the internet. and i want to know what it’s like to be able to whisper together.
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each day finding it harder to read we let the birds do all the talking as we worry
love poem no. 3. you make me distinctly aware of the back of my neck
i don’t know how to be romantic. how much can you think about someone and still be romantic? i can give them mirrors and fraying electrical wire, tiny packets of sugar, but that won’t change the fact that i’m a monolith. and there is a very small hole in the topofmyhead.itwhistleswheneveri amsad,inafrequencynooneelsecan hear. sometimes i think about long drives full of sad music and private frequenciesandthetipsofmyfingers become peninsulas. this happens more than i’m willing to admit. but i will say that the last time it did i was withyou.andwewerebothcloudsthat looked suspiciously like chemtrails.
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places of refuge. the downstairs neighbors are elk. they scratch at their ceiling and do not mean it. they sing beyond range of the pines. my bare feet on floor are a reassurance. as is morning breath. the neighbors leave notes on the front of our refrigerator with magnet poetry. we never see them do this. but we remark on the goodness of the world nonetheless. and sometimes it is nice just to picture antlers, instead of knowing them. i do not always brush my teeth before bed, but my feet remain bare through the night, until i run off to sleep, where i no longer think of the neighbors.
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situational awareness. on a waterbed i become a corpse whose teeth are full of salt and still beautiful knowing this it’s possible for me to get a perfect sort of sleep as long as i hold my breath
love poem no. 10. this this is really difficult isn’t it
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love poem no. 7. in the upper corner of the cover of my very favorite book i wrote your name instead of mine
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i feel something and i don’t know what it is that i feel but i feel something and i feel it very strongly and really after everything the coast has put us through what else is there but to feel and slowly breathe
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it is not about winning, but merely acknowledging the porch light that overlooks the bay
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i thought i saw you today on the subway. wearing a red sports jacket. you looked lost and sort of like you were dying. and if anyone met your eyes you would start to try to smile but then stop, like you’d forgotten how. and you would say, please don’t feed me, i’m dying. over and over. i met your eyes and you told me you were dying. but it turns out that it actually wasn’t you after all. just a random stranger. anyway. here. these cigarettes are on the house. i feel like they are important.
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in finding someone to sit with you on a strange porch and watch the semiannual gathering of the emergency flares it may very well become possible to celebrate every single holiday at once.
////////// advertising. outside of the reptile house there is a man in a colored hat who does not quite know that his smile is out of date. inside of the reptile house there are no chairs and no one seems to mind. the reptile house is only here until saturday, when it will once more assume the form of a witch and slink back into the swamp. what are you doing on saturday?
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i imagine screenwriter is another way of saying i am a ghost and no one else can hear me
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a very careful note in the handwriting of a vegan found crumpled up beneath the backspace key of a laptop. it still believes that it is summer. i don’t have the heart to smooth the creases.
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do you remember the day that i fell off my hinges as a young boy. spouting exhaust in a nonconformative way, railing in a trembling space. i stopped only for the cars, young Hollywood.
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this morning at table i am joined by a bowl of cherries and a lesbian. i have nothing to contribute. they both speak in the exact same colors and i am unsure. her lips are so much older than mine.
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