sometimes i catch myself wishing poetry on myself. not to say such things are wished for, no, rather I
poetics are cursed.
a turn away from empty tethers of commons and civil unions, to the real;
to be denied more than lived.
bodies become slow death(s) of self(s) expressed in ephemeral jest(s), and no one else was certainly there, or you were also she who you sought the whole fucking time.
because there-then was always a lie, because already never was.
the weird new know –
No’s knowing my favorite poets are all women.
While one may not hero worship,
unconscious and heroine may be two terms
more synonym than not.