some people i love aren’t alive
of whatever i have to be proud
they’ll have none
or
have only themselves to
whisper about it
-
with regard to losing everything
i was always going to die
some people are never born againi was always going to lose everything
think i’m lucky to be alive for ityou can be born as many times as you want
without asking anyonei was always going to die
some people are never born again -
two hundred and forty dollar walk
two hundred and forty dollar walk
i’ll have a new brother by the end of it
five hundred and ninty nine songs on my discovery playlist
and not one more
for almost four yearsi’ll stall and stall until i have something to say
on a two hundred and forty dollar walk
i’m heaving
a fat burrito in my gut
it will at least be downhill on the way back
two pistols
i worry for my own pressing eyesright to Grand Blvd
to the UPS store
a two hundred and forty dollar walk
i’ll never hear the end of this
not one more
for almost four hundred years
the Neanderthals looked like us
that’s where the uncanny valley came fromsomeone looks like my brother
but everything is off enough
that i know it’s not
someone looks like my family
but they hate the immigrant and refugee
so i know they’re not -
i know you
why would i ever share me — with you?
i know what you say about people like mewhy would i ever let you close — to me?
i know what you do —why would i ever call you — family?
i know — -
tomorrow they’ll see
i was different today,
and yesterday,
and before that,
forever back.tomorrow, i think,
i’ll be the same.
i’ll wear pink when they wear pink,
i will wink when they wink,
and scream when they scream.tomorrow they won’t even notice.
i won’t be different anymore;
i won’t even be me.tomorrow, i think,
i’ll be free.tomorrow, i won’t even have to stand up for myself anymore.
i’ll be what they want me to be.
i’ll sit in the seat,
i’ll speak when they speak,
and scream when they scream.tomorrow they’ll see,
they’ll see,
i don’t even have to be me.
i can be them,
and even float into my grave.
i can even float into my grave like this,
like them. -
why i feel weird about you at happy hour
it’s just that
i had a drunk
as a friend
from the time my life began
to the time he ended hisand then
i had another drunk
from then
to the time i discovered it
on the call
and driving her to the hospitalthis poem will make space for the pain i’m in
without it controlling me
and you must keep space to have a drink
without being controlled by it or the pain in me -
feel awake
i want to feel awake
i like to be baptized
so that a man’s hand on my back can shoot me up from the water
you forget
there is a last time you’ll swim with your father
in a plastic pool or city lake
and even if he mostly held you under
sometimes still
he shot you up from the water
and the water looking on
and us awake
i keep pulling the sheets off of my head
but it’s not the same -
does my body know
why am I in so much pain
my body aches
does my body know
what my heart’s been through?I want an algorithm to stitch me in a sonnet
I want to be pretty but my mind and words I think are ruinedmy esophagus keeps closing
it is hard to breathe
& hard to breathe
and my esophagus is closingit’s like my body wants to shut me up
but I find other ways
to say my peace
and ruin thingsI want to be pretty & grieve
and lie and cheat and steal for good reasons
I want to be so transcendentally things
that everything I know and believe translates into me
I could read their mind and know
they heard me out and understood
and there would be no judgement
when I am everything
because knowing all the good reasons we got here
would get us all the good will we’d need to leaveleave suffering
and ecstasies
and everything
in betweenso that every experience takes on equal incandescent degrees and specificity
takes on all the meaning an experience could ever beit is not a game of raising up
or thinking more highly of
it is to dispose of scales completely
it is not a flattening
it is where no two things have any two points of comparison
where each experience takes on its own complete dimensionalitybetter and worse lose application
I know this is just the sort of thing one might expect to find in poetry…
it’s just… I’m sick and throbbing and all I want is to stop wishing I wasn’t -
i have this reoccurring dream
that judah is still alive and all of us
in his inner circle of friends
know well he is alive and we try to respect his decision to fake his own death
and then, in the dream, i find out he really has died
maybe a car accident or something usual
or i run into him in a grocery store or something
and he nervously says hi and gives me the deepest and most sincere stare i’ve seen and I know he’s requesting that I not tell anyone he’s alive
but then, like I said, I always find out later he died. like actually died
and when i find out i always think i wasted what time i had left with him
it’s as if even if he was still alive
what exactly do i think i would do so differently?
i’m not sure.. and i’d say i hate the dream except that the beginning of it always feels so nice..
nathanael.ink 