Q) A: Despair, get used to it

The good women have got to do what the good women have got to do. I was weak and I was stupid.
The worst crimes are committed by those who are trying to punish themselves.  They tempt fate because they’re scared to be direct. 
We keep giving the world a chance to have at us.  Searching for psychic reconciliation. 

I hate waking up to this.
This isn’t war it’s commerce. This isn’t identity it’s salesmanship.  Where are the real monsters?
I close my eyes, you laugh.  The solace of martyrdom, set off on her own.  The torment of the crowd, together panicked burning. 
Newspaper, hand me last year’s crossword! Let us enunciate the syllables of our parents’ virtues. Let us close the door and put our books back on our shelves.
Let us whisper “More” and “Harder” like that in the frontseat again. My subtler points are best impressed with your subtler points.
Those that are lost in your anger.  Impossibly.  I dream life were eternal every morning as the aching sun rises over the hill
  and every night it gets quietly dark which makes me positively shake.   
Rage, what we desire is space.  Sigh, what we desire is hot and primal. 
I am like smoke hovering in an exhalated curve, if it could remain there forever, smoking.  No, slowly the smoke dissipates in the distance. 
It is quietly agonizingly dark. 
I think of you no more. I think of you one more time.

I hypothesize interesting experiences cease once I forget about them.  I forget in the mornings when I get in line like a sleepy slackjaw.
I hypothesize somewhere tonight adjacent or nearly touching my simple impotent reality is a discrete orgy.
Tonight is so far away.  I already forget what happened last night.  The news graphs out loud. 
I silently protest macropolitics by skipping breakfast.  I adhere to postjudicial situationism by continuing to live with myself. 
I’m afraid to be happy because I’m afraid to appear that I’m not afraid to be happy.
I’m afraid that sounds like a really lame excuse to not try and remain status quo.
I don’t feel the same as yesterday. I can't get up in the morning unless I get off. Doesn’t everyone get off by coming around to what they mean?
Writing wordless pleas in the pleasing colours of your eyes.
Our consumer exchange society demands going to work each day but only suggests buying you flowers.
Begrudingly I open the door. Sunlight hits the floor and I think about you.
I’m afraid you’ll need to define "random aporiae" for me.

You see we don’t see eye to eye. My reality moves at a different speed than your reality, and this is wearing my empathy thin and your heart out.
Somewhere on the wordless edge I am rocking out, doing everything wrong.  Sorting out the palette into categorical themotions.
I reason away my actions in a sea of irrationality. I think glory is a kind of tide. I think my past is everything I failed to be. 
Something for the cat to piss on in the corner.  I don’t miss the feelings I had back then. 
After waiting for the late news to tear me apart I love going to the supermarket and getting lost in the aisles.  The I’ll’s.  The Eye’ll’s. 
 The whole universe is a story I tell.  Turn the page, a new color. 
My own simulacrum sensations coming out surrounded by dairy products and crackers and you and I. 
Racing carts in this remembered hope and possibility.  Everything is of course nothing. 
But let us suspend the so-often suspected bulletins and surrender to the unexpected.  This just in, again. 
An evening so full of little conscious sensations like the melancholy of the surrounding streets beyond the parking lot, where we drive and listen.
I regret already something beyond those streets, beyond the trees’ tallest branches, where the old stars are again coming out like an old old story.
I’m trying to forget.  God got lonely with his themes and colors and created man.

I think so long as words come when I call I’ll be okay.
 I am told me that "oleaginous" is the right word, but innappropriate.  My stringy hands running through her hair on the pillow.
 Stop.  Please start all over again.  "Like the time…"
 Stop.  The mind, like a politician, can play dirty.
I think God is a poet.  Those pale stars are just bones in their embryonic molding, reaching out and yet to connect.
The beautiful pre-skeleton of the universe.   Everything will come together, all light will touch and hold us up, a bright big ball.
The Light of all colours in the fucking darkness.
But until then we go home alone and put away the groceries, and grasp and ponder. The lights out, the door closed. The future is a memory.
Nothing remains except what I tell you she tells me. "Because" I wrote, I said nothing.

I cultivate anger in the greenhouse.  I dissent from life and I am proud of it. The flowers love to listen to me talk I tell them to tell me.

The world is defined by its loudest voices, some of which are quiet looks.  Systems of government are thin air and reminiscence. 
Collective thought is an abyss, I drop my quarter in the slot and feel my mortality.
Winking old men punishing criminals who have committed no crimes have committed crimes.  We punish ourselves indirectly, our motives vague.
Where did organizations come from?  Their history is not who they are! Dear author, these characters are poorly defined.  Please revise.
 We starve for answers amidst the newsfeed.  More deaths in the middle.  Nations destroying nations.
Order a sandwich with lots and lots of meat.  Out the window of the café everyone shimmies and blurs in unison. 
We and the world are superfluous mysteries. I write in color and order tea remembering that you are now unreal. 
What’re flowers?  Why didn’t I get them?
My punishment has stretched from the past and spilled onto the present.  Tea rings on white doily.

My God she wrote in color. My God we say everything. My God I am. My God fine.
Who the fuck knows what my sentence meant.

Maybe you were wrong to say that.
Maybe you thought that I forgot that we talked about making mix CDs and putting them on park benches, dedicated to make believe lovers.
 Former selves and dead rock stars, a testament to us, with a link to our site.
Maybe this sounds familiar.
Maybe we should resurrect the yellow peril.
Maybe love is a rumor going around the social circles we share.  Maybe the red scare.
Maybe enthusiasm and sincerity are only for the young.
 Maybe the demented.
 Soldiers coming home.  Voices rising up and striking.  Prices going up.  Job growth going down.
 Now I am unshaven like the famous man.  Anxiety and luxury is where the continent starts.
Maybe vibrating legs are coming at me! Maybe we’ll never get there unless I lie and tell you a story about getting there. 
 Vast are the fringes we inhabit.
Maybe whisper it, maybe grunt it. Maybe I ought to take a cold shower.

As we go, we grow, searching for psychic reconciliation we die with change. We can be anything in death, spare anything in change.
Until then all understandings are usually probably misunderstandings.  You didn’t love me.  You did.  You are unreal.  Really, you were.

Common sense is vague and compounds the colour of the meaning.  Transcends sentence structure, blur it all together: Datelines.  Nightlines. 
My future is our past which is your Protean present.
To change the future I have to recollect the past and remix it into a portrait of all that I am.
Some that I am:
I am consistently glad that unlike other impulses I cannot justify reprimanding my adrenaline.
I write and I wait, Why, did the chicken cross the road to get to the other fucking side?  I hope to find out what's there.
I comic strip,  -- depersonalized & refetishized -- and my body is a news paper header, a thin blue line parenthetically-distanced from emotionformation.
With no focal summit, no staunch outlook. A faded photograph that triggers in you some roaring vision. 
The puzzle being comprised of pieces of loneliness, and the knowledge that there is more to you than there was.

Throw obscenities out the window telepathically.  If only my eyes were black, gray, yellow, then I would do something with myself this afternoon. 
On the contrary I am bored and alone.  Alright, I have the pollutive sky.  Cursing the lousy sunset.
Like the weather report I tell the truth and scare away all our shared friends.  Fuck like a hyacinth to make my forebears happy.
Envy others who are happy and hate myself for envying others who are happy, and afraid to hate myself, which is not the most radical fear.
I hate it when others are trying to cheer me up and I'm afraid this means there is something wrong with me.  Of course, there is.  But what?

Here we are in a poem brought to you by the people who brought you the people who brought you.  Say the name!  Say the name!
I keep waiting for them to tell me that I lost you.  Other deaths from the front.  Abdications and elections. 
Fire spilling out in all the corners of the screen.  Bit bought by bit.  Door to the world, dreams are coming. 
Mention how brightly my eyes shone as I awaited justice.  I turn out the lights late. I sleep with your hips sometimes.
I am a time traveler anticipating fame.  I am shame and disradiant disaster. I need to obsess less over the concept Of self:

You made me come in 3 dimensions. Your panties told me they prefer the spin cycle. Your breath is all I want to hear. You can't be trusted!
I can't believe you ----------------!  I thought I knew you, I guess I never knew you, maybe that’s why you went off and -----------------!

One can only laugh.  Laughter is a great reprieve for memory.  Isn't it?  My God I’m shaking, still waiting to end up back where I started. 
I re-read what happened as it scrolls past the bottom at the top of each hour. 
Since then your words are explosions that blow apart the floating doors I’m tenaciously clinging to—
 --never was such succinct disintegration so pleasant—-
Are countries really countries?  Are my impressions all of what exists or is there another region?
What was God reading to the good lady before he hovered over her waters and made her belly glow?

"Cacoethes" I read is the irresistible urge or desire to do something inadvisable. What triumph is there in private credence?
Happiness would kill me.  Fuck it.  The world is a stillife painting of me blowing smoke at the mirror naked.   
Your smile is a disease.  My awkward grin is an idea waiting in the wings.  Such intimate disasters tonight. 
A car strays from the highway and is thrown into the lifeless bloody ditch where they suffer,
  listening to the slight white noise of the radio feed them unnecessary adjectives like an unpleasant daydream.
Placate me a moment and remain very quiet and still and unfasten me from my name in your mind. 
Let’s uncouple effects from intention, straddle concepts withour notions of regret. The more alive I feel the brighter coloured my words. 
Come here and fucking don't tell me to wake up this is my dream and I'll wake when when I damn well please now come here.  Come here.  Come here.

Fuck.
I hate waking up to this.