every time i hear the word ‘combo’ all i can see is a giant crocodile
crushing something in its death roll
your shit is broken
you are a factory building a burning cloud
that follows you everywhere and spits down on everything with shit
and can be returned to the burning cloud factory for a full refund
because it is broken
go plant a tree and watch it grow
go open your internet browser and refresh it
until your shit is no longer broken
why is the sun always so far away from me
it’s supposed to be a while before it breaks
come here sun
i want to show you my collection of encyclopedias
that i scratch over with ink one page at a time
and then breathe the ink-smell so you seem closer
‘vaccine’ is derived from a word meaning ‘of, or pertaining to cattle’
‘pandemonium’ is the name of satan’s palace in the center of hell
i saw a house dismantled once
until only the pipes were left
it looked like an arthritic hand
searching for the center of arthritis
and the center of arthritis was friendly
but unprepared for vengeance
the atom is almost entirely empty
its parts spin around some dream
wondering if it is ever real
listen to my eyelid collapse
and then climb open again
like a tiny human
impaled on the tusk of a galaxy
carry a calendar around and fill every box with ‘did not escape’
keeping up with days is like a word with a lot of i’s
after you finish writing the word you still have to go back
and put the dots on all the i’s
count the number of times in one day you think
every choice is simultaneously a rejection of everything that i do not choose
multiply that number by a hundred
if your number is less than a hundred write it on some paper
and nail the paper to your door
so i can recognize the homes where shit is broken
winter is like a skull summer is like kicking open the skull
heraclitus wrote
‘on those stepping into rivers the same, other and other waters flow’
rousseau wrote
‘man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains’
i feel like my shit might be breaking
the lake portion of me is drying up
the lake portion of me contains a disturbed outdoorsman
the lake portion of me will be dwindling when you build your fucking ridiculous mansion on my shores
and then 50 years later the lake will be gone and everyone will say
who would build a mansion on that dead gaping crater
i am like the car from christine
blind and evil
and relentlessly hunting your broken shit
the earliest human emotional state is ‘unstoppable blemish’
look it up
and then pour highlighter juice on your face
so you will be highlighted
and not go unobserved
all the light that touches us is old light
so we are like victims of the universe’s sexual assault
and there is no protection save for darkness
put yourself in a plastic bag
so nothing can stain you
put yourself in a plastic bag and intentionally forget
to write an expiration date
no one will know whether or not you are expired
if you can’t be a dying star you can at least be obliterated by one
if you can’t wear the highlighter juice your environment will consume you
cut off pieces of letters and splice them onto other letters
and work the new letters in between the old letters
until words won’t fit in our mouths and we develop telepathy
mechanical rubble
shoved into your hippocampus
and building a temple there for decades
writing looks like tortured worms pulling themselves from the dirt so they don’t drown when it rains
everything i think feels like it’s written
on a pile of bricks with a black sharpie
everything you say sounds like it’s covered
with bandages made of crest teeth-whitening strips
i am a failed nutrition tunnel
do not attempt to freshen me
time steals everything backwards
you smell good
no wait i mean bad
but in a good way
i’m so sick of karate being in everything
and feeling like i have to do flips and somersaults, verbally or otherwise
let’s inhabit the powerhouse of emotions
and mine the megatons of coal required to produce the emotions
and touch each other with the correct specifications
because the iamb is said to represent the heartbeat
and the center of the earth is a giant iron fist
churning a perversely slow metrical form
which is often called ‘horizon’
let the horizon sneak up on us one last time
pig pile on regular earth
regular earth loses
| James Schiller |
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