poem

you might ask about the power of resolve.
you heard this phrase somewhere and so you ask
and we are answering the unidentified question
in ways that are not the same really or relevant.

“it has to do with graham crackers, and the perforated line”
i might say, and you would respond
“it is about the ten year old boy who was lost in the mountains
carrying only a hatchet” and we would divorce our own ideas

we are not right
because we are what is left
when words don’t make themselves

and because we are left we might be what remains
though this is troubling
charred useless remains are all that is left of our right
which we never had
to identify each other as speech receptors
reciprocal patterns that reinforce the notion
of being
which we are not
by way of negatives and their canceling effect.

lets light off a few black cats and listen as the machine-gun
rips our silence apart.

ask me why I woke up to tell you this
ask me why I woke up.
i would ask the cat as well
as he might know better answers.

we are eating our own shit
but we are doing it well and without remorse
or second thoughts about whether our enamel will seal it out.

its about perforated lines
snapping.