The Daily Poems, Week 1

DEATHWHITE SELF-REFLECTIVE MOTION

“This is hard. I will acknowledge this is hard.”
To proceed into action one must undergo
The violence of de-remembering, the
Strategic slap to the frontal lobe that
Loosens the fear of thresholding the sill
Qua blunt force qua intermittent in its
Various positions

Hermes leans over, and smirks
We all know what’s going to happen but
For now let’s just pretend that
I’ve looked at life from BOTH SIDERISM

(Birther of both, herald of unsettlement)
Man-devourer, devoured by mare.
“It jumped right to horse race.”

Much can be said of the self-fulfilling
Prophecy—most of it unwanted
Disambiguations—falling into trappings
We haplessly weave out of, voids
Locking and metastasizing under and
Over, the effect is like a spheric treadmill

He might be your father but he sure
As shit isn’t mine
Robber of herds, plucked from right under them.
(“A certain aim […] in repose.”)

The not doing the same as the opposite
Volition is not a satisfactory tamper
Of the indecision
The frenetic tempo arouses
Inevitably leads to panic—
(“Not declare anybody inevitable”)

Hooves hit the ground like rain as the 
Predicted manifests and with the life
It wrests from hands so too the
Anxiety; stress.

Bored into the earth and now at 
Rest, the potential up-boils and cracks open
Filling the surface with unending chasms.

“When you talk about people wanting us to pick a side,
Who are you talking about?”

The Daily Poems, Week 5

AS IF THIS WAS REALITY

Poured into each other
Asphaltic and brined
O my cusp o my shifting line
Meniscused with feeling
Totalled to wont

Revealed and frightening
Going forth into the rocking
It is with flux that I will master
It is beyond in which I will lay

Hope twixt to the stranger
Tongue garbling on the sharps
Heave to the amber waters
Take me from gale to shore
Impressed upon by so much salt

I’ll kill you on sight
I will rile up the enemy
I will slander with ease

Impunity in the actions
Knuckles loaded with the rage
I am righteous in the aggregate
I will leave you at bay.

The Daily Poems, Week 7

THE ILLNESS CONTRA-SENSE (3. BLOOD)

“Everyone else is not sick like I am.”
This is the way it begins and must pursue
As thus continue to take

It is once you are fully emerged that
The hue starts to shift, unctuous now,
Of more weight than your own as it is
Outside yourself.

—L’emprise de l’inconnu—

Does the kind of… power of it lie simply
In the fact that it is without name
But of the body, pulled out of bone
But still familiar,
Droplets turn to pools, churning
Each suffering stretching the limb

The meniscus now mirror-image
Of what’s inside—turned outwards
And, snarling
Hides act as nothing but
Obstruents (t, k) that are awkward; excessive.

The Daily Poems, Week 9

A Very Closed & Constrained System (Dross) (6. Firstborn)

Taken away by the
It is a robbery first and foremost
But that/all word(s) do not
Quite assuage the

A bitter amoral core
.

Fiddling with the residuals
Like that does anything
Summoning up the 

More images surface, exponentially worse

Who will avenge who will set right
Echoes to empty rooms mouths
Moving only the spit sloshing
Around audible the soreness
In the jaw almost

Ought is a very big word
Ought is a very dirty word
The abysmal root of the nothingness
Is that it always holds less weight
For the one unmoored
The jettison light, unaware

The Daily Poems, Week 2

WHICH WAS, OF COURSE, AN ACT OF RETRIBUTION

Hold it up a little higher
Testament to violence, witness to more of it
—Wordless, screaming, screaming—
Look what you have done
Look what you have done
Wait until you see what I’m about to do

(“A STUNNING REVERSAL”)

Cruel words to the epidural
Seize up the spine
Keep holding it up, higher, higher
The arms shake from the unrelenting form
Quiver at the absence of the break

The effects dove-tail into a never-ending chain
It loops around the neck and laughs, softly

It will never quite tell you why it is that it is happening
But tighten ever so slightly throughout the years
As you gasp towards the origins
“AT THIS POINT IT’S CLEAR,” you whisper
Over and over but you’re dead wrong
And the musculature will give out soon
And you will Manifest what you feared
All along, that in the end,
This is your fault.

“You get the sense that this is not the end. There is more to come.”

The Daily Poems, Week 3

STILL JOCKING FOR SUPPORT

 “This is overwhelming what we’re looking at.”

 The arched back, the craned neck
The position can’t be natural but it is
Inevitably appealing

The crisping of limbs undergoing
Pain sublimates to ecstasy
But only for the beholder’s eyes
Always for the beholders’ eyes
“It needs to come to fruition in very short order.”

It needs to be pushed out in a lapsed period of time
We’re using the same words but one
Approach is inevitably scarier
Because it’s angling more towards the trap

It’s not a matter of progress it’s
A matter of limitations
You can’t argue your way around
(A PROHIBITIVE FAVORITE)

We all have our own version of the
Same question and we think ours is
Very wry and special
But your bottoming out will be so
Similar to mine and their’s as to drown in it

The ornate crown around the neck is just a chain
Strapped to leisure, sinking unit;
“It’s simply a matter of math.”

The Daily Poems, Week 6

MEANT TO REACH CONSENSUS (1: SWARM)

The number is ten people keep trying to ballpark the
The word normally used is “swarm”
But now that we are all so lonely
We opt for more neutral terms,
Like crowd, reunion, etc.

(The handle of the knife is round
And fits in the palm like a missing part)

Communion can be such a dirty word
Nothing more distasteful than the sense
Of being/bending to compromise-d

The pages are not ones you have authored
But you cling to them still
You of fair-weather liminality
You of inconsistent spine

The light breaks in, slowly
Swallowing objects with its phantom tide
Edges fuzzy like they are now all the
Time (a sensitivity to X because of
Shape like a grumbling core)
The glint of the blade its funny
Little wink

And it is now that it becomes fathomable
To disagree, with the knowledge that
The consequence is to have nothing at all.

The Daily Poems, Week 8

CONSTANT CONTACT WITH

A daily practice that once generative,
Proves to be conspicuously flawed
To the point of weak-ing the liminal,
Poking holes in what is entrusted
With the task of holding back/in.

It is not, however, a duty to be shirked—
This being somehow ignoble, base
Beyond its mortality-affiliated consequences

At what point does accountability shift?
(Thoughts drift towards air travel
Imagery, masks sagging from the overhead)

The trajectory from subject to object
Is an ominous one, the Drive
Protean now the means
To the end end-it-self
What leads to the demise is unflinching and
Impersonal

Out of hands and into mouths
Barriers ripped off,
The outcome mealy, soft.