I consider Straight Edge, but
decide I don’t care.
come, help me photocopy my zine
in the library.
down beside the microfilm,
replicate with me.
come, let me use your copy card?
only for this last bit.
with automatic page detect
we make a perfect fit.
come, although the toner’s low,
come, let’s take a chance
on inexact perfection and our
and, like, I’m into you in pieces and never to your face
a clumsy kind of love, or of whatever.
“I got things to write.”
a clumsy kind of whatever.
a high to ride and crash on.
you were my second-fondest memory.
that part of the floor that’s warm, even after the sun’s too high.
Death from Above
draw me foxes, roll your eyes
I’ll hate how my inks are setting—into and out of everything (and all over my fingers)—and just glitter all the things.
all in my airspace
it’s like every person in the world is either bearded, or smoking.
I feel hard. or thoroughly. s’why being mad pomo mofo is so fucking ironic. agency in thought, or reality in feeling—whatever—it’s my construct. I’m not down. but lately, I can’t get past the poetics.
it’s revolting: my poetry is revolting. I drown in poetry.
s u b v e r s i o n s s s s s s . lately, I want to be fascinated.