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One day the world started. What

the fuck am I talking about? I am

writing a sentence b/c it feels

bad. I don’t know. But I guess it

feels good. And I am looking at a

fire happening. Right where it

should be. Surrounded by books

being very smart in this house I

don’t own. One day the poet got

named Frank Lima. He was good

at it. And I am checking his stuff

out. What else? The dogs are

good at sleeping. When they feel

like it. The fire is orange. It is

dying. I am hiding behind the fact

that I am saying pretty much

nothing. I’ve put a tape in the

tape deck and am waiting. For it.

Feeling like I want to kill

something worthless. Don’t care

what. Stab a thing thru the eyes

and pull them out. Very slow. In a

manner also true and lovely. The

logs are growing dusty and

small. Half the beer is gone. So

when I do again what I’ve done

before once more I’ll still be here

tomorrow pulling my bangs out.

B/c it’s this thing I do I’ve never

really ever addressed. Hello.

That’s an address I don’t give a

shit about. B/c it’s boring. This

beer’s called “bell’s two hearted”.

That sounds stupid. I hate that.

Two hearted… Earlier went and

taught. Saw this kid I grew up w/

after. All spun out. Acid + tv. Said

he’d puked strawberries in the

moonlight. Watched the eclipse w/

his mom. It’s a way life happens.

Which felt right. To hear him tell it.

B/c it wasn’t what I needed. Still I

got home got in bed pretended I

was famous. Not who I was

wanting to really make it hurt. And

so public. Something so sinister.

B/c I am that? Everything is quiet.

Except this dog now moaning in

dream. I’m stoking this fire. And

believing. In what? A can makes a

sound. When opened. You can’t

have back. Nor what’s inside.

Once you start. Not that one. So

another. If only for the music. A

book of prose at my feet. It’s so

pretty! Like some cupcake.

From hell. In this very elegant

package. And these quite

possibly have been my best lines

ever… 2:30am. Car passing. I

can hear it from way in here.

Even w/ my head under a pillow.

It will not stop. One thing leading

to what’s next. Picking my nose

until it bleeds. B/c I keep

forgetting. All these things. And I

am angry w/ pretty much every

one. Including you. Whoever you

are. What are we doing? In this

mirror but also elsewhere. Like

how it’s tight inside my heart

now. And if I never had to think I’d

just tattoo flowers to my face. Be a

pleasant sight. Loved by all.

Brought around to cool parties. I’m

tired and want more poems. Bagel

w/ butter + jam. Some spoiled

turkey. Tonight is forever. Tho it’s

been taking a long time getting

started. I was startled into motion

before but now it looks like I’m

really going. The blending of my

life and poetry has been exciting.

For me. What about you? What

month is your favorite? Which

device do you find most effective:

stopwatch or frying pan? I cut up

vegetables and put them on

heat. Then I eat it. B/c I’m this

actual genius. But everyone has

secrets. Everything real seems

kinda dumb. Once you see it.

The rug is under my feet again.

Just barely. The “fringe” of it. Like

the tip of some cloud I am oh so

just touching. I think I’ll stay here

awhile. Be a little peripheral while

I count up the contents of this

change jar. Go buy a popsicle or

whatever. And celebrate

February in style. I’m in my car.

On ice. And the earth seems very

sick. And that’s sad. And I am.

And I saw dead flesh. Other

people out here also. Listening to

podcasts mostly trying to just

keep their shit together. Wasabi

snacks + roast beef. It couldn’t

possibly be more modern. I could

probably have been a better

friend. To you. And you. And you.

So when I called you you

seemed miffed. As if now I want

to know you again? It isn’t fair.

There are all these people you

meet. And then they go on living.

And the space you’re leaving /

have left exists. Is real. Like an

object. Suddenly seen. But no

one will look. Not sure if they’d

laugh or cry. “Hi, I’m french fry”.

Some 5th grader’s lab report on

guppies. On a wall in Forks, WA.

The only true art I saw that

summer. I think I mean all these

things I’m saying. B/c I feel them.

I see one light from out my

window. As I drink 1,000 beers.

And the point of a circle is that it

does close. Which is freaky. And

not what I desire. But what I say

is different. When I say it w/ my

hand. On paper. As opposed to

in this phone. Very numbly. I

could have learned. So might I

turn into the moon? Live like a

sliver looking down on all this

shit? Or much more fully. Each

dream more disturbing. If just

slightly. And every thing I awake

thinking. From somewhere in

me? But I am far away today. In

another direction. Not sure

which. But it is related to how I

am perceiving. All the ways I’ve

changed. Yet am too close to

ever be seeing. Having bloomed

into this present. This room. But

the cup won’t break. No matter

how hard I will it. The puppies

are snacking on bones. I am

thinking of you but you are looking

like mist. The skin around my

eyes is greasy and slick. I

just got cut. By this book. It bent.

Turned like a knife. Tho I still

have a life. Need tequila coffee

beer books friendship. They own

me. All is rotten. Inside me. The

weather was cold. And then was

not. The performance had begun.

But I had entered my new

muteness. Raging. Like a rat on

drugs. And what you were was

what I saw. Above that pile of

trash and snow. On my sad walk

home to nowhere. Only yesterday.

Which sucked.

JAMIE THOMSON is a poet from Northampton, MA. He currently lives in Easthampton, MA.

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