Automatic Writings From the Back of a Paystub
I do ache for a societal consensus of the good
a very good continental philosopher
in the manner of a madman, daft and pained as Nietszche
Hitlerian ubermensch of the sixth mass extinction event.
Something in me always succumbing to Poe’s Law:
red lips ringed in red lipstick,
wanting to be the thing I find hilarious.
Absolute manifestation of spaghetti;
denim shorts terminating beyond the knees.
Never knowing how to be a séance unto myself.
Blown-speakers of teenage personhood;
a shriek of despair behind the steering column
and the leftovers secreted in the glove compartment.
Sometimes they build rosaries like this:
six or seven death threats against myself in an hour.
I had forgotten that non-smokers are invincible.
You there, in the wild blue push-up bra,
you have heteronormalized me inexplicably,
the way a cat fills a room with people.
Not so much through fault but by occasion.
In the mad quest for sense you have made the dumb eloquent.
Yes, the ceiling is not responsible for holding us,
but what are ceilings if not irresponsible?
Left stranded on the desert island of desire,
everything grows green with envy – tropical palms, the coconut a kind of fruit.