The World Is Too Full to Talk About

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Guns Cant Kill What Soldiers Cant See The act of birth wouldn’t plague me so much had the fabric of the world not been robbery. Continuously, you rob and are robbed. Continuously you are put in situations that force you to shave off your humanity to fit in places impossibly small, and your bones are so thin, They fall apart. Alone inside the cubicles of my being I am not anything or anyone Men who rob me of what they abundantly have cannot live inside the cubicles of my being and I never utter their names or think of their faces Only there am I human in the sense of fruit squeezed of its essence 34 of 44
Bodies and words. Beauty is not native to this soil I clash against it as I force some artificial birth of home grown poetry, fruits, all my own but find my palms, every time, empty. I could name the growth which existed and continues to be I could recount the verses, hundreds of names for clouds, deserts, plants scents of burnt wood, songs of lost lovers Yet I find for others there are trees, the open air, fire at midnight at the heart of a brutal winter (some comfort!) I only live from room to room. Every afternoon, Men gather around in cafes Drink heavy bitter cups of tea and smoke cigarettes eat sweets made of dates that fall from trees which are the mothers of otherwise deadly deserts. Talk of the weather, all the new and old ways in which the world is falling apart and laugh bitterly, loudly About the thought of their own demise But in those little dwellings of humanity there is no room for me When my body sits in a room the curtains must be closed 35 of 44
Page 1 and 2: 1 of 44
Page 3 and 4: “to be lost is a kind of leaving
Page 5 and 6: Book I: The Worst is To Sleep Throu
Page 7 and 8: Recurring Self Portrait I seek beau
Page 9 and 10: Born To Die In our backyard I am a
Page 11 and 12: Every day I carry my mother like a
Page 13 and 14: change my tongue become something a
Page 15 and 16: Birthday Song Sitting on my chair,
Page 17 and 18: a terrifying question, to be loved
Page 19 and 20: The Insistence of beauty it appeals
Page 21 and 22: Mishima I am a seed incapable of gr
Page 23 and 24: Sea and Solitude (1) in the 90s, yo
Page 25 and 26: I am not sure what made you so arde
Page 27 and 28: and this death is seen all over my
Page 29 and 30: Book II: This Is The City You’ll
Page 31 and 32: Cities of flesh Like a falling leaf
Page 33: Waiting for the sun which cannot se
Page 37 and 38: the sun is crueler than ever he hol
Page 39 and 40: Self/ home My existence is very sma
Page 41 and 42: To B, before he has left I do not k
Page 43 and 44: so small almost a hiss almost a whi

The World Is Too Full to Talk About

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