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felix culpa...
The obduracy of ice
grows bubbles for its crystal nest;
to the blind could be iron,
& those wobbling spheres,
plausibly foils of breath
from a body gone under,
overwintering in understatement.
Falter of flow and flow of falter...
How our languages freeze to each other.
:::Water accepts its ice-halter
The way desire accepts
the collar (zygotos, "yoke")
of love it craved...
Poorly and pyrrhic
the word's embrace
of its nest
Advice
you should go watch family guy
you should try Abilify
you should send some of your poems
to a magazine you're really afraid of
you should go tuna-fishing
you should go far out to sea
see if your problems
follow the boat like the bipolar stalker seagull
who always shows up
oh what do i know
maybe you shouldn't listen to me
check out this parking ticket i just got
from fucking Stonehenge
Not a Valkyrie in Sight
oh it's a flower?
The conventions delightful
as language itself,
the eyes after life
or the cat smelling a book
by the window that was his.
The eyelet in the breeze
inside his apartment.
You were chosen for survival
in this funny form.
His trinkets. A baby.
A god. A Buddha
sits on a fuzzy toilet.
A toy. Dinosaur egg
atop the poems.
Things that will never decide
whether to be born or not.
But look.
The cat comes to you
climbs into you,
and reckons you
an okay place
to sleep.
The obduracy of ice
grows bubbles for its crystal nest;
to the blind could be iron,
& those wobbling spheres,
plausibly foils of breath
from a body gone under,
overwintering in understatement.
Falter of flow and flow of falter...
How our languages freeze to each other.
:::Water accepts its ice-halter
The way desire accepts
the collar (zygotos, "yoke")
of love it craved...
Poorly and pyrrhic
the word's embrace
of its nest
Advice
you should go watch family guy
you should try Abilify
you should send some of your poems
to a magazine you're really afraid of
you should go tuna-fishing
you should go far out to sea
see if your problems
follow the boat like the bipolar stalker seagull
who always shows up
oh what do i know
maybe you shouldn't listen to me
check out this parking ticket i just got
from fucking Stonehenge
Not a Valkyrie in Sight
oh it's a flower?
The conventions delightful
as language itself,
the eyes after life
or the cat smelling a book
by the window that was his.
The eyelet in the breeze
inside his apartment.
You were chosen for survival
in this funny form.
His trinkets. A baby.
A god. A Buddha
sits on a fuzzy toilet.
A toy. Dinosaur egg
atop the poems.
Things that will never decide
whether to be born or not.
But look.
The cat comes to you
climbs into you,
and reckons you
an okay place
to sleep.