it is a great silence
i have inherited
broken by fits
forgotten held breath
i eroticize monks
not for their bodies
but the monotony
of cleansing pain
i am a dead whore
once i disappeared
too privileged really
a humming cramp
‘aching to pupate’
too scared to appear
untidy in name/mind
how can i possibly
produce anymore
substance consumption
beyond intimate insistence

‘Hello, hello
Who are you’

it is too quiet in me
even in the roar
a constant tone
nothing to learn from
at crossroads resistance
at least to everything
positive reinforcement
praise the devil
dreaming otherworld
lost focus fuzzed over
burntdown smoldering
houseshell two days later
four standing statues
greek maidens at the corners
smoke flowing as the creek
in center of warped homespine
four still-standing white statues
amidst wet ash, everlasting fire
this is a new kind of winter
it is at once its own season
and a muffled pause before spring
in the first week of february
already daffodils pushed up

‘Not yet, you’ll be dead’