Saturday, September 8, 2012

While sitting in Sizizis,
Olympia, Washington, 9/8/12.

You have cultivated your inherited hopelessness, to grow
like a warm knife through your back.

Only bitter tastes register, and love
is revolting.

Love, that sustenance from the
aged basin

is revolting.

you consume the
dust of nutmeg,

to lend a cold and static pulse

the cyanogenic pits of peaches,
tepid beer.

You would not like it here,
here where I am sitting.

You would not like the soft,
dark wood, the ceiling

of doorknobs.

It is not unkind,
not fraught with needles,

not a keening night terror.

There is little light
and minimal pain.

There is not room
for you to spread your limbs out wide,

and hate.

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