Why are you here?

Why am I here?

Why?

Still.

I am I think about 10 or so feet away from myself.

I'm there.

And you ask me?

Still.

Ask him. He's over there. He's who am.

 

To write and get lost in the intricacies of words. To not get meanings by trying to mean. the silence of the letters. the biology of words and punctuation. the architecture. the archetype. the cold wind and goosebumps. the heavy heart, mute mind, and blind reason. the dictation of the spirit. the heaven and hell and God, angels, and the demon. the sea and the cigarettes. the black coffee and electricity. the wave and the wasteland. the people. the things. the sound.

She said. I then recalled the complexity of the question once disturbed the serene, pale, history-laden face. I'm good, I replied. I feel lighter, I said, thinking that she is unimportant, just a passing, a comma to a full stop. I felt lighter. I could feel the breeze, the skin on my face.

Such is my reading that meaning is overrated.

Now I just try to write,

making a living out of the dead,

so I might be born again. Okay now,

whom should I kill?

what should I break?

Such is meaning that my life is overrated.

Sous Rature as the man used to say. Tell me, isn't it that way? This history this story this journey. What did you see? Can I see it too? What did you feel? Can I feel it too? Or should I get what is not mine and make it as if mine? Do you mind mine? These are not my tears. These are not my fears. For have you not told me to not fear, not make a dear out of those who do not hear. But flesh and blood can't lie. Flesh and blood is here. It's me. Just me.

What's wrong
about you
is me.

When, right on the edge, our eyes met, The weight of the light of your eye submerged. There's suddenly a mystery, pressing and sweet: did she know? Haunting like a vulture over a dead: did she truly know? Like armor melting down, my face twitched and filled with this spirit. Yes, let me now confess that that smile you just saw was but a blind betrayal, poorly acted to cover up a prespective of shame. That swift light pierced through and through, like a knife, a bullet, a drop of poison fulfilling one passionate mission; it's reflection set up the truth about my fleeting mind, that could have been god, had there been enough time. (Time. O time. O frame of mind!) That mysterious light turned me into a politician in a public place, a critic in a poetry contest, so confident, so victorious, so alone. That ghost wrote me note I couldn't decipher. Your voice, your retracted smile, your hair - water-falling your shoulders - and your breasts now freeze on this horizon in cold lines. You should go. I must depart. There must not be another time. For if again our eyes meet, you shall see me, thus make me immortal.

Write me again
Dostoevsky!
Grab that hatchet,
Throw that grin
for me

Here I am.
Write me again
Dostoevsky!
Bleed me
out, I'm dying of
erasure.

I hate the smell of cigarette smoke.
I smoke a pack a day.
Therefore God exists.

The other the day I came upon a book on
The book shelf in the
house.

It was there. It's always been there.

The lightning then struck
An old, familiar
storm.

Again, I died
And now I wish.