I get nothing done.
they kind of smile,
don’t believe me
but I amounted to nothing

I show them
sweeping my hand over
an obscured history,
really erased but also
no real success
I laugh, undaunted
usually and also kinda
breezy. I like smiling
and they like watching it.
composition open
pointing to one sentence
I like watching time.

I’m obsessed with unproducing,
or burning a process as you
watch it unfurl. it’s like
setting the bottom of each trunk
on slow fire and then you
climb to the top of
a pine watching it
engulf you, eviscerate
whatever you were.
I am up by dawn, or close
to it,  thinking this is what
true love is doing
and I’ve done this before;
proving habit,
and the deep deep
null of feeling
that I really possess
daily filled with
plotting and idle time,
idols and
a rumination of these
invidious encounters.
my ability to rectify.
something always in my hand.
something always tinctured;

distilling and then
wanting you to see it:
my nullness and
overreaction and courting
that must be
facade or instinct or
vexing but
mold it into something
better than the ice cold
well I am.
palms open with pleas.
that’s where people fall.


in the snow bank
in the bottom of the frozen
hole trying to help
the little
girl.
I think a lot,
I say softly.
we are two inches from the
other and I must admit,
I flutter when brushed.
and I like learning
words.
point to one
as he leans in.

what’s the meaning? he
says thumb pressed firmly
at the bottom of my buttox
til the mark sets in,
not clarifying if he means
the definition or
whatever we are touching.

“duplicity”

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