In the morning I misspell things and wish I were dead.
I feel like an insect in a fluorescent light fixture
with no idea how I got in here and a very short time left
which I will spend running into the bulb.
I want to draw a line across my back that doesn’t speak
with a long history it can’t avoid. In that sense it’s mimetic.
The things I find funny aren’t. That’s why I’m hiding.
I prefer metamorphosis and squaring off over games of
Guess Who: Lacanian Edition with a forward by
German Romanticism. Translated from the French by the sound
of someone else’s voice. Written in France
as a pile of catastrophes, an elaborate way of thinking
axiology, gardening, an overgrown path,
circumstances, a pattern whose significance is traditional
but broken
to the annoyance of my imaginary lover.
Every square is a little mirror and we silently weep.
What do you expect? I am burglary itself,
screaming “Write me!” from the vegetable drawer
like history, which can be met only with the sadness and disgust
of returning to the fridge. “This is a house of death,”
says the tomato from August. Luckily I was washing the dishes
watching a foreign film when it happened.
I imagine flowers are logical,
but I still feel weird about them.
