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