I started swimming again because I’m planning to swim past the moon once I’m dead and even beyond so I can see the ghosts that live on Pluto and catch the Hubble telescope on its way to Andromeda and wave to the lens with my ghost fingers even though nobody will see it.
This poem is jealous of everyone who is normal. / This poem doesn’t care about cheeseburgers / or paradise—it only eats them when it’s drunk.
When it gets dark / and has been dark for a long time, / something changes. / A self-conceived epistemology / materializes at the foot of your bed,/ takes off its heels and black dress / and begins to smile at you, / and somehow, you are once again, / able to call yourself Cartesian,
It’s Monday: a spreadsheet, empty and full / of numerical potential. The light in the office / is the color of my hangover. The coffee tastes automatic, / pressed by a machine—the printer smells electric / and inky and warm
The Actor is laughing, holding a whipped cream can to his mouth, black jeri-curls dangle in front of his eyes. He talks about how whipped cream doesn’t have too many calories. And you notice that he’s a lot like your friends, that he’s simple, recognizable.