Taught on your way through jesus easter midnights not to
open your innocent eyes,
ever,
you wander like a headless plastic doll
in alcohol nirvana wonderland coming;
while the wild,
strawberry circus of anima icons, in the
estuaries that fill your optic nerve with living,
replace, unflinchingly
everything you never wanted to see anyway;
they build that Chinese wall for you easily,
like a dead grandparent’s laughter,
filling a room with the scent of late tuesday foods —
with the scent of quotidian summer in the city —
and it suits you.
It suits you fine.
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§ As you get older, the ghosts become more real than anything else.
§ Under the leaves, soil. Under the soil, stone. Under the stone, souls.
§ Radically empowering individuals in society may be the worst mistake we ever made.
§ Want to be a radical? Refuse to suffer. Then, wait for the assault.
§ Goodbye 2017, part two. (The real part.)
§ Sometimes you find home where you’ve never been—and you dwell where you aren’t.
§ The self can’t play Atlas for postmodernity because science is now supernatural.
§ Rehab is universal. So is history.
§ Identity, transcendence, and tactics.
§ Untitled. (a.k.a. Pretty faces, new old photos.)