Not Yet

There is objectivity.

I don’t deserve

forgiveness for my…

But I ask anyway.

The end is near.


There is an ambiguous

pain in my

torso, throughout,

changing fluidly.

And I’ve changed,

perhaps not as fluidly,

but perspective is



If this is

the end,

so be it.


This is no end.


Truth in Confusion

everything condensed

not in tunnel vision

but a different, inventive

all new perspective

proletarians and their

fierce joy in immobilization

those final few breaths

are even deprived

all in which she has

ever known: brevity

the grand scheme in slumber

what once had only

existed in dark corners

is revealed overexposed and mitigated

America as Minotaur,

taking advantage of weakness

she cut herself off

and yet freedom waits

tethered to red colonial bricks

the full view is mythological

longing for depravation

the rosebud is yellow

that much is obvious

the media loathes itself

and so does she

locked in her rusting cage

isolate and interact

making love and being raped

sloppy, fat philosopher-

“I have not felt like killing myself this time”