I must not speak or water will fill my lungs.

The looks are empty.

And the sea is very far away from the shore.

They say we know more about space than
the depths of the ocean

quiet water lapping water
cold dark pressure
raining little bits of
bathypelagic detritus ash

sunless thermal vent life
makes us rethink the order of everything.

What I found there wasn’t what I was
expecting or what I
wanted like nothing I
had ever known,
everything.

It’s been a long time since I read books
but it’s been longer since I heard a voice

that sounded human.

I know more about space
than I do the depth
s.

Extent.

I might be so much bigger than hydrothermal vents–
did they change
what we know? no.

Extremophile, archaea.
Extant.

Read me my genome.

You’ve never seen me before.

Look.

How far it goes.

what they don’t teach you in acid-base chemistry.

 
i don’t think this is a hunger pain

anymore too late early hour drowning

water wondering it takes what to work,

feed the wrong beast a best

you can do.

better now blown out your tongue taste

isn’t food anymore

tight cramp base bottom of your stomach where

has that even ended up landed

you back at the start old foreign ground.

this isn’t what you think it is,

about.
 
 

i don’t have words for this shit.

everything that was ever anything

you weren’t

awake out of a bad habit dream

you wouldn’t

stay still until your face is blue

how did you forget?

how did you forget.

how could you forget.

the condemnation tearing

down the rabbit hole

in one smoke it out

of the rabbit with water

that will wash out

from the bitter taste

you bite your tongue

broke the surface

tension you know

nothing can last

one from final hours

you had the audacity

to forget?
 
 
 

Sisyphus.

There is a sort of nostalgia to remembering what I could have done,

and of course the things I should have done.

A nostalgia to remember what I thought I would be.

–Naive

“I hate microbiology.”

I hope I did well on the microbial physiology exam.

Something I never would have been,

it’s cute, the childlike

picture drawn by kids on a base of rifted representation.

What Picasso captured,

in spite of himself.

Too many things I never checked off the

waiting list to the other university, unanswered, maybe, no.

The imagination is a powerful thing. So is the mind, and

the body. Mortal enough to drag Prometheus down

sick sick sick.

The inevitable of course.

The eats up hope.

I used to be an optimist

now I just don’t give a shit

I walked two miles home the other night dark muggy, do what

has to be done. Very far away.

So I don’t imagine the future now

don’t give a fucking shit–

steal me that how not to care, rob it from my gods.

Sisyphus. Fail an exam again

it’s okay I have eternity until whatever.

Hope crumbled melted under

quiet silent

blaze of Icarus.

Dragon wings.

Tear me the stolen fire of the mortals.

Throw me down from the heavens.

Take my blood.

It’s scary, isn’t it. Watch.

Snap the lighter and lick the fire on my tongue.

i don’t like synthesis problems.

what if I wrote a poem a day? but what is something today worth writing about? I wonder

is it

1.

the mess at the apartment that I still haven’t picked up?

2.

maybe

flighting desire

not wanting to study organic chemistry and synthesis problems and predict

reactions and the outcomes and the most likely product

the most favored to the least favored the most stable carbocation?

3.

or the things that–I don’t remember actually what was talked about in class today–?

4.

or perhaps the

celebration worthy nap white noise white noise of the air filter a sweater over it though,

just to keep the light out, off away so when I open my eyes it is dark

when I close my eyes it is dark but the sound’s equivalent

of it is not silence one long exhale white noise of that purifier machine

the bright now censored ultraviolet to cleanse the air the white noise the way

the black of sound is not empty white noise no it is full the way the black of lightlessness

is full of standing statue still silent dark figures around your bed–something to

make you stop thinking and focus on

going to sleep?
 
 
 

Dying is a Very Human Thing.

Crows are one of the few creatures that recognize
themselves in the mirror.
 
I am on the brink of myself.
I am a hungry, violent, wretched beast and
no, it’s not enough.
 
You can train a dog to recognize itself in the mirror
with association so that
it says: “Look, that’s me.”
 
I itch like a worm burrowing, chewing deep
into my skin and to my bones.
It scratches and crawls and I want it out.
Every day I use the mirror and I am
used to seeing my reflection but
I don’t see it under there.
 
How do you know if the black dog knows
what its reflection actually means?
 
Maybe I ought never to have looked.
 
I envy birds.
 
Roy Batty: replicant, synthetic human—no, not human enough—sits with
a dove on the rooftop in the rain, his pinnacle moment.
He is dying–more human than human,
 
he is more devil than the devil;
he can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do:
 
                            He is a man;

                                          he can die.
 


The last two stanzas contain/quote/paraphrase a few words from Bladerunner (1982), and The Man Who was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton.