Nameless

I don’t know what to do here,
at the end of our pretending,
where your absence reveals you
and makes you real at last.

We were a language too threadbare for names
too fragile for nouns;
and once a language has broken down
you cannot even say,
“the language has broken down”;
you open your mouth to speak and choke on muck.
Muck is the misunderstanding
of misunderstanding itself.

Muck us, muck all.

I cannot name this place:
the end of pretend is not the truth;
make believe does not unmake belief
when it dissolves.

And so I smile when asked,
and lie.

Fake Love (Letter to a Metropolis)

I want to save myself from anger,
To look in the mirror and not see you behind me,
In me, silver eyes swollen with light.

You’re so fake.

You’re always screaming at me
Through the television
Through the interwebs
Through the stereo turned down, and
Through the long corridor of the night in which every counterfactual is a door and every door is unlocked and behind every door is a noose.

I have to hang myself to not be hung
On your every word.

You make women boys and boys unbeautiful.
Your best adventures were used up on our parents
And they’ve never recycled an aluminum can in their lives.

Time has sharp teeth, and money brittle dentures.
You weren’t built for posterity.

I’m angry.
Anger is writing someone else’s poem.

We never spoke the same language.
You’re not one of us, we
Who never crossed the dreamline, we
Who met the Buddha but could not kill him
And so never met him at all.

To translate is to kill,
And to die is to be understood at last.
Mortality is just a language game.

You cannot understand me.
What I might have said is not what I could have said,
And you’re not paying attention anyway.

Why do you make it dangerous to speak
When you fundamentally won’t listen?

You’ll chop off everyone’s ears before the music changes.
And you think you’re a musician!

Well, go fuck your hedge fund manager,
But stop pretending you’re one of us.

You made your choice.