Some Days Even Water Gives Me a Hangover

But here I lean swigging black beer
listening to colleagues diss cocaine and curse
and reminisce about the binges of yore

every drink
hardens my silence

they scream magic names
clown to music that isn’t there
and roar at the same joke twenty times
holding their hourglass heads
sick with glee

I understand
why we’re running,
the sickness of the reality we hail from,
but this all seems like such dreadful waste
I wish
I could shake us awake

for it’s not too late
we could still turn this battleship around

but if we don’t act soon

it will rain knives

our blood, signed by the cosmos,
will be baked into burnt cakes

and the survivors will build houses in the trash

The Parking-Garage Ark

I watched the parking-garage ark being constructed high above the streets, back when its glass belly rested on a 3D grid of white steel sticks; when above it a skycity of cranes nodded against storm clouds in an otherwise clean sky; when it had no skin and its spinal columns and rib rows repeated far and high and out of sight; when black tiles crept up its leviathan sides, which were infested by thousands of tiny people suspended on silk threads, performing adjustments so minute it seemed impossible that the parking-garage ark could ever be complete.

Now, alone in the universe, it tolerates eternity above the black abiotic waters.

And The Problem Is

nevermind
it’s all caved in
and I just don’t want to restore the walls again
I would rather be rained on
aware
that once I leave this rotting palace
I can never return
and so for now
I just want to tape up my blown mind
I want to enjoy the stars
on the ceiling, the red lightbulbs
and persimmons and the crushing terrible
strength of my teeth. I will allow the snow
to decorate the stove. Moths may nest in my bed.
Let the maggot thrive; I’m going to live in electricity
and I want you to see it all. Thus
the walls have become windows
I somersault and drink flames
and point hysterically at creeping vines
I grow oaks in the bathtub
and wash myself in rubble
I commune with the garden spider
I squeeze my brain until a seed pops
up through the ceiling chasms
into outer space, and
against the star-sick dark
the seed unrolls green tendrils
toward the unbelievably distant
other minds

The Parasite Pities Its Host

Don’t forget, it croons,
We’re in this together.
Don’t you think I suffer too?
Someday I will kill you, it’s true,
But then I die too, brother,
So I feel for you. I do.