Friday, September 16, 2016


For years now, I've been 
trying like 
hell to figure out
why my lips and the 

tips of my fingers and 
toes—are always 
going numb and tingling
with cold.

Turns out, I've been frozen 
for years now in the same lunatic mode
of trying to make
my whole day into a poem;

rich with its evocoative mix
of sensual rituals,
featuring loads of repetition and
paying too much attention,

each step heralding some auspicious 
new place.
In each hand,
a uniquely

unbearable perspective grasped. And
every last 
breath, a wild incantation. But goddamn—
how perfect-

ly pitifully translated 
at the 
end of every evening, into mere 

at my own overwhelmingly dull— 
and yet still unspeakable—