at activism.
You’ve fallen deep into your addiction.
Your despair spreads everywhere.
None of this is your fault
but it’s still happening.
The failure is the fracture is the opening
like that infection that started in your elbow
and moved to the depths of your being.
So maybe you should jump into it.
You spend the night reading about a god
cleaved in two so the dream demons come true.
Capitalism is shrinking and the rich
have gotten more violent. Capitalism could fail
and win at the same time.
Poet, this is called “crisis.”
The swans and the trees and the birds are buzzing.
They don’t care.
They hum.
Capitalism won.
I went on a run.
I am dumb I hum on my long run.
A series of demons dressed as birches
tripping on the waterline of the riot.
The leaves and birds of the riot.
The twigs of the riot
dispersed as demons disbanded
to the center of the horned wreath.
A quickening like dust or lost resources.
Some red dirt cries for Ra.
The resilient ones rise and fall
as categories of storm light,
as instruments of the godhead
spoken in a spiked language.
Crowds flee their emblems at dusk.
Away with her
Away with him
In the morning you see someone
stretching against the Gulf of Mexico.
The graves are the faces of striated flowers.
The musculature of the urban landscape
ribbons like some vague concept of gasoline.
In the morning, you are in love.
The material and its shadows unify
to doves. Everything you doubted falls softly
into an aubade of rainwater collected
by strange and singular animals
that roam the toxic dump.
You sing into a grave because it is there and apparent.
Maybe it is a window or the wooden frame
of time crisscrossing the seas.
There are still purple ships and people still board them.
You pick up a green comb
and comb through your long, wicked hair.
The coffee is good here. It is good here.
To scroll past the body of the dead baby,
the baby that looks like a form of dust,
the baby of the desert is the baby of the sea
and the atrocities are piling up like hyperventilation.
They will build cities for themselves
and contain portraits of themselves
in the gemstones of their terrible philosophies.
They will be whimsical about genocide
and the pride they will feel in this volition
is like a brand of coffee or cereal
(nothing more or less).
I ran so far into the greenery that I saw
the purple rose that once grew in the blood
of the love garden, I saw the Jericho
of my tombs disseminate like the neurotic
spectacle of rainwater and then I vomited
like the queasy tides of history not
on our side and felt guilty and told no one.
The managerial class will punish us
with their monotonous, grueling blue eyes.
They will paw at our gates
and the houses will split open
as they go further in their quest
to forge digits, hemorrhage data.
Their constituents concentrate
on numerals as if their codes
were constructed by nuns.
Their unfailing power turns on itself
like love poems of pure possession,
like troubadour fantasies they tie
weights to your body and push you
gently into the blood river.
The factories in the background
are only imagined. They pump
and huff to transfix mimesis
like the face transplants of memes.
