The human ignores the itches on its calves and behind its ears where inside its ringing. Both of them. Pain beneath skull could mean any number of things. Hunger is brought on by the insignificant. Machines make noises all the time. No matter what it can’t get away from cause and effect. An artist refrains from expressing the ambiguous spatter of sensory everywhere around. Detached from repetition, only responding to thoughts through an abstract, nondescript logic. One half of its brain shall perish in the soil, the other ascending beyond tangibility. Today I breathed for the first and last time. It is only the beginning because I will it to be. Right now. I am creating the present, and it is a continuum that will proceed into oblivion, but that also will be negated, negativity. All things must exist, since nothing really matters. We have been so worried about sin. Rightly so. You pray as much as you can. I don’t ever want this to stop. Suffering is beautiful. But only when you don’t suffer. I thought I bore my cross, but I guess I was wrong. Don’t look back. Just keep going. The blood and spit will both wash away. Human liquid runs its course. Look up at them and show your faded teeth. That’s it. Move along. Golgotha is everything. Or so the computer tells me.
You fell to your death
in order to impress your peers
or maybe for yourself. To prove
something, but what, we don’t know.
The parking garage complex was vast
and the vertical drop exhilarating.
Painted styrofoam was the decoy,
a little ledge on which you thought
you could land, but couldn’t.
The owners wanted to keep up
appearances, and so did the morticians
for your viewing. A shocking event
when we all quietly considered the implied violence.
The guys you were with laughed when you did it,
until they leaned over their ledge and saw your crumpled body.
Now that’s all they’ll ever see.
“Stoned to death in the streets of San Francisco,
in the year of grace 1869 by a mob
of half-grown boys and Christian school children.”
The tiniest one cast first
then lined up for smiles
in sepia school picture
viewing a future stranger
says how cute the young
pale tot smiles into the present.
Wan Lee’s human flesh
was never photographed.
Rather, the iron and wood
in which he worked became
what his master’s religion bid
them to be. A conduit imposed on.
It was true.
Wan Lee was meek.
If only forcibly.
And so he inherited soil.
And yet it was foreign.
I had a cut on my finger
in the subway with nothing better
to conceal a dirty wound
and viral madness
I wrapped a poem around
it naturally but as I lost ink
like blood spreading
through fabric and me
there was too much
in the words and the red
bits falling out
of myself made me think
“this feels like the old days
waiting for another poem to die”