Fragments that could be poems spun from table scraps, shrapnel, worries, pocket lint
Journal entries meet erasure poetry crossed with some GIFs and a random photo and I call it "la cohérence" and there you have it
the mad birds are flying again the winds have picked up swelling our rough-spun sails like the bellies of the rich almost the same obscene curve as the bellies of the hungry cotton streaked with blue veins faded tattoo lines of the heartbeat heavy with fuel but no maps no compass or even a destination just this daily bread of staying afloat unladening the boat by degrees
external validation feels more valuable than money this tiny buddha platitude is a perfect example of me pushing (toxic) positivity into every negative space pushing the first into a third person point of view "could I be any more fucking emo?" he snarled walking away from the notebook cursing, the stone paper book he had dedicated to poetry exclusively, a journal in verse stone, hammer, chisel, a load weighted to cure the atrophy
the thought experiment that goes if you could dream anything you wanted you would eventually come full circle and dream what you are doing right now the thought experiment that we chose this for ourselves this lot this pain of loss this loss of bearing this knowledge of finitude, entropy this pain as the medium for growth a medium for the wisdom to carry on to carry an ever-growing load with ever-diminishing strength that those who have lost the most are those we must ask how to live how to love each other most of all the other in ourselves how to value the background process the foundations the floor under one's feet how to sink our toes in lessons boring as dirt how to kiss the ground
Other fragments:
this hits.
How I would survive an internment. Will be by noticing letter-press-like gashes in the dirt. My newest latest greatest rockstar- that gash where some thug dragged their heel for one second. And in no other way ....