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Sunday, April 2, 2017

Santiago, Mon Amour

Last night I sat on a bar stool and told a man
named Michael that my name was Michael.
I woke up as myself, with no better reason
to be myself. How easy it is for the lake to make
sound. The trees sing. I have not walked much
this morning, the day already broken in my throat.
See, my routine: Boil water, think of Chilean
suffering, humans suffering the impact of humans.
First so much fire that we cannot breathe, then so much
water that we cannot drink. See, my routine: Boil
water, stain water with grounds, let it build
a tar foam, plunge it down, make it a cup. Call it
Joe, as I am Michael. I can do nothing against
the Santiago death winds, sip from my yellow mug
on my yellow throw in my pretty, pretty house.
Catastrophe a background color. When I wanted
to die, it was easy. I am doing it now. I crack
an egg into a bowl. Outside, an opossum heaped
in the kind of fate we expect for such creatures.
The yolk foul with old bristled fur. How it is
I still crave beauty in rot. I break the yolk
and pour it into the ritual. What I want to say:
Of the past, the car drives away mute as any
picture toward and far from what I know.
A man sits outside the frame and I understand
time to be speaking, wet texture filling with
mouth. I have no respect for what is said
of survival. I am thinking of the storm ahead,
peach bright, so goddamn beautiful I forget
there is a better idea in the future, the future
that promises only that it will never arrive.
It’s what we want, isn’t it, a rupture ahead
that has no name for what it will do.

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