(hic sunt incubi)
We are a reiteration of our other selves
of everything which is already happening,
everything ill-conceived and wanting,
everything in between sleep and not sleep where of course
Hitler was an E-sharp (#) and a truck drives through
your song;
everything that has already occurred.
The fear of missing out:
add impulse to impunity
irritation, doubt, and no one to tell
which gives the illusion of nothing to say;
my lackadaisical treatise on soreness
(the heart is a muscle too)
a studied ambivalence
(time is flat)
a fist in the air
a face in the window
blinking on
and
off.
I don't have an appropriate container
(a flimsy excuse)
for this tension in the artifact.
This relentless shovel.
(This whisky ate my name.)
This paltry frame.
Then do it again—
all that separates you and me
is a dusty placard, a can of paint;
all that separates you and me
comes slowly unwound.
Here be nightmares.
You begin to hear
trains everywhere.
