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