I'm like, you know, digging

The new thing to fuel me is coming home drunk to write poetry. Maybe I'm turning into a high school sophomore and then i'll cycle up again, grow to 45, grow wings, write this damn thing. These are the things I put into the word doc, "rantzzz5":




In the apartment, even when there's no electricity
my hands still graze on the worthless switches.
It's as with your face and my thoughts of it--
there is something in me that will not learn or close.




How much more full-time can you get
than hating yourself. It takes all his energy--brick of days,
brickles--the slow tumble of the gamepiece as it hits the falling walls.





We shuttle through fonts, bogus and slow
and there are no other ways to say it than the way
we should have used already, "I'm sorry."
but what's with the sinking regret that I don't feel
long corridor walled in mahogony, some dark wood
that won't allow for escapes, or for light,
or for anything between the lathes but carpet, festered and deep,
a stream our lives are running into and over--delight of kitten heels
treading false grass. The coconut fronds, knit in mother's wool.
Like a latrine your heart wells up! Foolish mothers!
Keep your children from the door! There are men in the streets with pistols,
pistils, epistles, and they are here to ruin lives.
Carry your shoes in your hands.



Parlance of radio gods
in the earbuds and the alleys
hearable from far off. Through this heat
your coat is like a swimming pool which children eye;
delight begging drowning from the worried mothers
gathered poolside around the latest corpse--
always another child.
Just as the one you'll choose
is always another girl,
talking sweetly through mouthfuls of crushed ice.
Telling myself it's better that way:
You through the alleys are dully traceable
I can predict the next turn and the next
a system like heatwaves lapping eachother.

I'm thinking of that story, where we take a spaceship to a land like North Korea
where the people speak also, Spanish, and a mushy mix of Japanese and French
they call Hanguoren--the word I know in Chinese to mean, "Korean."
The problem when we get there is there is not any water
We have taken the ship so far and forgotten how to drink.