Θ
precursors a book I liked that I don’t like anymore
no writing, and no writing on the horizon
silent dinner silent dinner on vacation
I see someone I used to love but now
we don’t love each other see a friend but
we don’t have fun say I like a movie even though
I don’t, or see a friend and we only talk about movies and tv,
after what it took to leave all that behind
try an aging app and what emerges is the old man’s sagging eyelids,
his weary lip, he also lost friends as years went on, and however angry
or resolved we are when they depart, there’s always that child inside
who whispers oh no, they’re really going
friend with an ego ideal so fragile that to be thought of poorly,
by anyone, was like a death
at the house-turned-museum, when I said won’t it be nice to have
our letters in a place like this one day, Rachel gave me a look, it’s true
we know too many writers, how can any of them stand out enough,
how about a museum devoted not to a genius
but to everyone’s flashes of genius
something holy about the fact that we can follow passion to a terminus
that shakes our body, knowing it could shake the great body as well
that world seems far away
all the moods a promise has to move through, to stay intact
rejected after having declared absolutely everything
some things, once said, can never be taken back, and by heeding
these emanations the undead navigate an expanse of featureless terrain
to slake themselves on pity at its spring
even belaboring this list the insipid approach of endings
my friend and I talking about a moment from a past no longer possessing
any reality whatsoever, so obscure it couldn’t even be staged,
unless there were such a thing as the opposite of a play
the people who think I’m cheap love all this inflation
Θ
problem
that to keep the good moral feeling
you must become for a time the moral itself,
bank of servers backing up infinity,
piece of information that can no longer
be diverted from the wrong ear
stay a few extra days, next week is slow
and you’re soaked
we see the woman cutting flowers
and know Mr Keats has died
I’d be okay being near people, if these
really are people, despite the enthusiastic
rhythms of their speech
nose starts bleeding and my weirdness
is all over my hands
don’t just remember me,
that only works for nine years
Subject
