The water will run from rich to poor,
and the manhunt will end and not reverse. The hourglass has been turned too many times:
we have the internet and each other and violence.
The occupation has begun amid the penile geometries of the neo-gilded
buying loitering laws for the powerless to feel powerful enforcing.
The language we walk is rebellious: it has to be. Nothing is ours,
and no one knows the rules until the police turn up.
The curvatures of these nonlinear geometries are becoming too much:
Why’d they curve the hallways of the new middle school?
We can’t see each other and we’re in the same hallway.
Is this a crowd control tactic?
Is something that should be yelled at every town hall meeting.
The board is rigged. They can frack under your house probably.
The mineral rights were lost long ago: ask the American Indians.
The conspirators never conspired. They were taught the same things;
their formulas were written long ago and your ‘family history’ is not a variable.
The apple won’t fall on Isaac Newton’s head;
Eve cannot eat it: It’s not your fault anymore.
The apple was last seen in transit to the Caymans.
Video games have their own physics.
The last time we had fun was playing a zombie game. Our society in the game made new rules;
the rules were similar to those today, but we were actually involved in making them.
Everything will be as it is now, just a little different.
I have a wee vulnerable garden out back. Please don’t step on it.
I’ll cry if you do. It is and will be my life’s work. I’ll be devastated.
It doesn’t get as much water as it used to. I have to buy bottle water.
I’m getting older now. The trip down the back steps feels far.
We’ll make it though. I always sit and watch
color return after I water my little garden.
I think the soil’s getting thinner. I don’t know how or why, but it is.
The circumstances aren’t ideal but I’m committed.
After I write these things, I feel like I need a hug.
I wish we could talk now, but I don’t know how to find you.
Something’s happened. Everyone’s been cloistered
and is praying to the same distant God
whose signs are growing vaguer.
I can’t hear your prayers anymore. This happens every winter.
The wind howls; it howls more and more each year
like it’s being channeled into sharper and more jagged corridors.
It slaps my face harder too. I think the wind wants to escape its labyrinth.
In the winter, I read less and pray more. It’s not light for very long.
When I worked my office job during the winter, I would leave before sunrise and return after sunset. I never saw the sun.
During that time I began to believe seasonal affective disorder was more a response to terrible working conditions than anything else.
I used to love the winter, but now the snow falls less and the wind screams more.
The climate’s changing. I know the jury’s not out, but we all know there’s going to be another technicality…
Soon I will hold you. We need our conversations, our dialogue.
I used to write poems at work. It reminded me of Frank O’Hara,
but I’ll never get paid to write, and I don’t know that I should be,
but I do believe we should be paid to live together.
It feels like a universal right, or something better than that
like a home should feel.
The mistakes we made as cloistered monks and nuns will be for forever:
the scanned scrolls are riddled with the mistakes of a shivering hand.
We’ve been alone for too long. We’re still learning.
I’m sorry - these are the words that are closest to how I feel when I realize I may have hurt you, hurt us, damaged what we decided to build.
There is nothing I would rather do than build with you even if we have to change the physics of this entire fucking world, even if it means changing the mass of the earth.
The wishes we make are political and sometimes utopian.
Maybe one day our retirement savings won’t be sucked into Wall Street’s pockets.
I’m trying not to live so inside myself, so I’m saying all of this,
but that only matters if we stay together. I want to.