Dairy makes me horny
and yet, I continue.
Diary makes me sick
and yet, I continue.
Diary might kill me,
arrest my arteries, and
rip my heart out,
and yet, I continue.
Every day, I engage in a
mating ritual with death
and I hope one of us survives.
In my trepidation,
I consult the almighty rectangle,
holder of none of the world’s knowledge
and responsible for the fall of mankind,
and the truth hurts as much as it frees,
we are the only ones who can know.
I still remember that sunny Wednesday
afternoon when Steve Jobs plucked the iPhone
from the Tree of Knowledge,
thus sedating Adam and Eve,
and Ygrassil sighted from relief,
like a couch that has had a tumor removed
from it’s crusty sheets.
God celebrated with parental
relief and indifference,
freer now from us fleas.
At any rate,
in the same way,
the god within us can ex-communicate us
from nature, presence, and closeness,
I tend to think of relationships as walls
filled with broken windows and mirrors
of a cloudy sunset.
Instead,
I want relationships
to become a bonfire inside
of the belly of a beast,
and I want to speak
to the part of me
that’s life adjacent
and to the part of me,
that’s death adjacent
and to overrun Death’s supporters
from the dusty corridors of my soul.
I want to acknowledge that we are in stolen land,
and also that the concept of ownership
is stupid where we don’t own ourselves,
where we owe our lives to cheese,
to rectangles, to the wind and the ocean,
and to the gritty sweaty dirt
between my toes
and as I seek to exit the oneiric fog,
I pray that on the other side of it,
I will no longer be horny for death.
Comments