Narrative to Life Beta

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.

In Memory

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.

With the Word We Will be Healed

“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.

blurred paper filled

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”