Photo by John Angel.

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Where I'm Tired Of Shooing Flies

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Dedicated to Ghazal Mosadeq
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I’m drowning on the second floor of the Ocean wondering... Did she fall? or did the sky just
briefly look down? she is the scholar of my end-times: the only spindle that reclaimed its yarn.
there is no love: only fleeting moments of worship... in the kitchen Satie listens to me, more than
I listen to him.

in the kitchen she says the moment he opens the poem the news disappears, but I am the
opposite:
          the way scent summons space
          the way space summons time
          the way time summons words
the way she holds direction and direction only, like only hope can. and all this unpaid cosmetic
labor that goes into just being: the loofah overworked from all the scrub.

beauty is just information. we collect it from the streets and pour it into our cup of Chai: silent at
breakfast: our worth is the current that the clock pierces through:
          arrange your scarcity
          orchestrate your nudity
          compose your body into that threefold act:
                    living wage/
                               living currency

you stepped on my language and I dropped a paragraph into the lake: an abandon can both abort
and correct:
          at the party everyone is popping pills but we get high by not taking meds. invasive
thoughts make death of themselves.

there’s an Islamic line of thinking that the monkey is the archetype of one who imitates: the
human sublet dosing forgetfulness on a point and shoot: gun or camera?

comatose beauty in a neo-colonial beehive.
neo-Antoinette with a make-up tutorial.
eat cake.
rim the executioner’s blade.
war wounds to produce groupthink:

I’ve brought my own sun
it shows me my blood
like how only a blade can

I’ve brought my own lemons
before the lemonade stand
institutionalized the sun

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