The
All these songs about fucking cafes
and people, and feelings, and everything they never said.
Well what if there’s nothing to say?
Just crawling
and diving
and spilling
and writhing
and laughing
and crying,
just do what you do best, you pile of worms!!
Sink in your wilderness, “ing” without verbs
in the brain,
of the mind,
from the head,
could be You,
but it isn’t.
There’s nothing.
Just bubbles of static and silence.
Just row, row your boat and koo koo kachoo
And document holidays I spend with you.
Flip the pages, the parties, the little exchanges,
The moments alone when you think you’re the stranger
The flowers and colors, encounters and pieces
that you left behind
in the future?
the past?
There’s no inbetween.
Just the singular humming of one big machine.
These are the thoughts we like to think that we share
with ourselves at least...
hoping to find us somewhere,
amidst nothing but static and silence.
Every time I think there’s an end to this poem,
it reminds it’s never over - it never really begun.
I float and I fly in a soup full of stew
and a brain full of minds
that I found in a HomeGoods on Route 52,
You know, you should really go!
They have Just What I Need
when I don’t know shit about shit about shit about shit
about shit about shit about shit about shit about shit
about shit
about shit about shit about shit about shit
about shit and about shit.
I try to write normal.
I try to be good.
I try to use words that make sense in
an order, a shape, a bee, a bell…
Ugh, I did it again!
There she goes, on and off again, just like words
In and out and up and down and here and there and right and wrong and
What does it matter, the order of words???
All that falls out is a charming duality that’s never reality.
Come back, just to finish the thought that you started!
Well, I can’t.
Because the one who returns is never the one who parted.
You know, nothing is nothing.
It’s not vast, or small
It’s no torn melancholy intention
or adorned with a oneness
It’s no thought or concept at all.
and it’s certainly not