The World Is Too Full to Talk About

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etween thought and expression The days are so quiet a sort of fabric that grows thinner with time everything hurts less, I am smaller and am moving closer to the centre of the box and nothing can touch me today I hear only the echo of pain I walked to the pet store, I walked to the flower shop there is not much walking in my city the sun was soft and I was listening to a song from long ago no one spoke to me, I hadn't spoken in a while. I was alone completely with the the mute motions of this city with which I had no common language I talked to someone new some man, much older I liked the sharpness of his eyes, it was a different world but even that was futile they come and go and nothing touches my heart and I do not even come close to touching theirs. It came to mind that I was alive now and no longer waited to live I sat in the room which was always my destination unimpressed by the colors of the wall the arrangement of the furniture I took a nap on the couch and woke up delirious I wanted to write a poem for all my friends who carry with them bags of suffering, swallowed slowly festering inside their abdomens a poem that is an apology, a shrug ‘between thought and expression lies a lifetime’ 38 of 44
Self/ home My existence is very small but it matters a great deal to me I’ve tried very hard to keep it within the scope of every other living thing an answer to a question but my body is filled with fatigue, under the skin there is lethargic swimming fatigue Isolation is so small, hardly visible, a pupil looking just a bit farther than you’d hope eyes just a little dimmer than usual, arms hardly lifted. the entire desert of my country between me and you, but I engage and am dying to be alive today is to try to fill the time with some meaning, with prayers of passing, with prayers of, passing the time, of sleeping and waking up, ending the school year getting a job, learning nothing, trying to understand and alleviate human pain as if I had power but I have power borrowed power, fathers pockets into the hands of others, I hope it feeds your child tonight. I push my arms into my own chest, my own spine, rearrange the insides into something more human and beautiful and living. Living because of the tendency, the inclination, the bend towards, the natural bend towards a death, a slow invisible, incalculable unobservable death. / my home rejects me like a body rejecting it’s own organs tragic and common enough to be a natural phenomenon of living as we are i float awkwardly, no soil to set my foot in, it’s horrid to lose ones dignity so much to be wanted nowhere. I apologize for the sent of shame eroding out of my body, it smells awful but is 39 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 and 34: Waiting for the sun which cannot se
Page 35 and 36: Bodies and words. Beauty is not nat
Page 37: the sun is crueler than ever he hol
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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