"What, if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more' ... Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.' "

The Gay Science, Nietzsche

Train to 95th

Downtime at a Mexican restaurant bathroom: What am I doing here?
Trapped onto the toilet seat, panting, drooling pools of hot sauce
breathing so that my fierily mouth will settle.
Miraculously, I hit a proper pause to wipe and escape
this gas chamber. I skid out of the restaurant
still feeling an eruption at the lower intestines absorbing the acids rapidly
enough that when I ran to the “L” I wondered if it was even safe to
ride to 95th without an extra pair of pants.
The temptation, however; overwhelms me.
Had the last rapture installed a platform for a new beginning—I stood
forward facing it as the train shallows the silence, shutting the
doors with me internally screaming for something more. Too
loud to call this close in, buzzing locations adhering evident
trances of uncertain pathetic desires that are too unspoken
to believe. Two stops in, I become the nauseated minority, clenching
on the windows as the train rocks back and forth out of the subway onto
the rails centered between opposing sides of the expressway. Chinatown
dirt and grease swarms to my left like an oil portrait dripping oozes like
a deep-fried hamburger. A black woman sits facing me, looking as she
is about to warn me but stays silent maybe as she hopes that it is her son
that will rob me on the other end. I lose myself in the unforgivable scenery
looking at the commuters on the Dan Ryan driving aimfully towards something
I wouldn’t know better myself. Plastic bags on trees grow out like leaves, falling
like foliage onto McDonald wrappers . A homeless man comes in on 63rd,
holding his cup as everybody drops something in. “That all I know could be my
daddy,” a girl announces behind me after dropping a fistful into his cup. The sun
begins to fall now, as the numbers increase on the platform stops. I look twice
to believe the plasma screens indicating the next train approaching, where I
get off at 95th and run to the next train to Howard.

fORGET tHIS

Bumps from underneath my
eye lids configured darkness
to conceive brightness
as to lasso those concepts to
decompress them to singular
percepts—unassisted affects
constricting towards an illuminated
vowel; isolated from the truth
calling on to it for reference.

Maybe my hands are meant to be cold,
meant to shiver at the absence of light
to crinkle and fold between the winds
daring me to surrender
but no
to consider, to contemplate, to mull
for affixes a ground for a road for a clearance
to hit my inertial body when I expect it most.

Fit into this tube, pour out detached
spiraling suspended in this spacious vacuum.
Lay down amuse, bemuse, annoyed
and far from entertained. Question the answers,
answer the fucking questions, question thinking about
thoughtful answers, think about thinking.
Think far into a depthful space where it no
never concerns, but produces more thinking
that you forget and wait forever again
to remember.

Untitled

Yeah, requiem, thoughtful
food for mind space, open
like coin slots,
pin drops
and assortments. Circles
in my drinking water
makes speaking lay
on gestured lip movements.

The Wait For My Time

I live in a wall, tangled with power
lines and electrical tape and
left over varnish
for my teeth to gleam
with no source of light.

I live in a wall and eat
sawdust from my vaporized
bones. I drink myself
drunk, for my skin ferments into
sale-rack wine.

I live in a wall, I speak to
no others but I hear all
sounds and interrupt all
phenomena with careful
indecision.

I live in a wall, where I
sleep like a pendulum.
Never choosing right or left,
but forward, if I could
if my wall was not in front.

I live in a wall, where no mouse is stirring
hiding my biological face from scientific analyses
for I fear,
that my wall does not exist.

Satellite Toaster Oven

The man in the box with swore teeth empties the bins of consumption in traces of delirium, psychosis, bewildered in black features, hollow structures, the howl from the hum of nuclear-powered Burger King sign.

Sea-shell beat the drums, pulls down the night sky, using telepathic strings attached by thin necks, swollen jugulars that fold over and keep in place my dream-states.

Detroit scars send silver stars, down streams and rivers of her cheek, buried in the center of a tear, rolls backwards down my spine.

The tightest fit I could imagine—white blood cells scream in metal-vocalizations, for milk stains on clammy palms, blood spots that dance in the microstructures of liquids.

Marijuana smoke fights back, hurls paint and assorted buttons, emptying the fill, which reaches and spills over. Bubbles on my tongue pulse in coordinated pops, releasing nitroglycerin and light reflections.

The Last Hemingway on the Mayflower