I cried all night unraveling your invisible terrain.
By morning I was sober and ready to exist,
not in fractions but in pieces too large to swallow.
People rarely believe in things that they cannot
manipulate with their senses and even with belief
it is difficult living on the fringe with nothing
but one’s own friction for warmth. There is no justice
in this world, only misguided attempts at revenge.
I am sick, therefore I am culpable, and incapable of truth.
Some people beg because they live in a state of necessity
because they are desperate to recover whether or not
their flight patterns match the current patterns of migration.
There are files with my name on it that I have never read
and never will read. I imagine they are filled with words like
“dramatic” “ liar” “hypochondriac” “woman” and perhaps
those words pertain to me, perhaps they even oppose me.
I rake my fingers through your brutal black coattails
always following never entreating, an afterthought,
flickering in and out of conception. Against you,
the lover, I cannot win but against you, the enemy, I already have.
I lace my guitar with your entrails and my boots with your soul.
There is a weakness in normalcy that we never speak of.
A fanaticism constructed and construed by ingratiating fear.
I am so distracted today. I have an important meeting on Wednesday and a case of crazy head. I don’t feel this is finished or coherent yet but I ran out of time.