Saturday, December 28, 2013


already attempting
to paint poems
like goya going deaf.
people singing threats
all the way from
the hidden side of the hill.
with my face i make
a scary goya.
i say
i don't want to get much older.
when i drive
i feel like the driver
of my childhood car
smashing everything.
i'm so good at
tiny demolition.
over and over in an email
with the words
"i'm sleeping weird".
i don't hate you
loosely steering
my behaviors
like a combo
of good sweats
queueing up
hormonal responses.
every young man
in this building
is attractive and
it's putting me
to sleep,
in the sense that
i want to die.
by luck,
i read adrienne rich
telling her lover and me
that our hands are fit
to carry out the violence
to end violence,
and it causes me
to shake and
step back out of traffic.