photo by Robert George Murduck ©
which parts of me died today (for David Foster Wallace)
every day
cynicism and ironic aloof
protect me
no feeling pain
especially when I eat the poisons
detachment/ bubble wrapped
two day shipped
48 hours is my longest cycle
I can stand to be caught
to be counted on for
anything
post-modern
grind clocks
pay by pieces
things you’re willing
to lose or bargain away
in order for there to be more
doors that get you whatever
that get you through any night
where you might be wondering
should I scry or cry myself into irrelevant laughter
should I ritual ornate my impervious to a further past here
quieting myself enough to hear my heart beat
I always want
to smell how time stops
all those pieces
I keep giving to the ferryman
I frame most memories
into poems
each one is another part
of the universe by now
I taste the ghosted echoes
rooting creative abscesses
howl
claw
piss
and moan
I am
desperate sometimes
trying hard
never to be
too much
part of anything
EJR ©
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