I get nothing done.
they kind of smile,
don’t believe me,
this impenetrable
frenetic go-getter
who twirls on stage all day
but I honestly 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 possess daily
filled with  plotting and
idle time, idols and
a rumination around these
invidious encounters.
my ability to rectify.
something always in my hand and

wanting you to see it:
my nullness yet
overreaction, especially
when  courting  that must be
facade and always vexing,
watching me mold any emotion
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 out
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,
elbow to my bare forearm.
flutter. 

what’s the meaning? he
says thumb pressed firmly
at the bottom of my buttox
right above my birthmark
til the second bruise sets in
so now it’s like a shadow ring
of one mouth and I’m
not sure if he means the definition
or how many marks he
has counted.

“duplicity”

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