monday, november 18
the ridiculous subjective interiority of being depressed as fuck all the time
— the stack frame of a moment
lucretius' atom, deviating in its course
arrangements of unexpected fact seen
through the tracery of yearsago decisions,
the lingering illusion of choice
and unwanted recitals of all
the poetics of giving up
the liftoff i keep reaching for
is like forgetting how to fly in a dream:
you will yourself to know that you
know the right muscles to flex
the right way to uncatch gravity
but the unreality around you
refuses to bend
it's like trying to wring one more poem
out of my incapacity to write a poem
the trick comes harder with practice
there's less blood in the stone every time
and all the vast catalog of experience
the whole shining web of memory,
all the branches against the sky,
the drugs, the music, the mountains in the fall
the passport stamps and the festival crowds
horizons indescribable, lights in the dark,
a rocket engine over the water —
all weakens and fades, cheapens and cracks,
corrodes in the medium of my faith:
cast iron in salt air, cheap solderwork in
hard vacuum, vinyl in the colorado sun —