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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.