looking back on it now, i don't think i am actually filled with hate

can we sit in the street and drink chai tea and discuss jung

afterward i want to lay down slowly

and look at a cloudy chariot

racing my heart to see

who can cross the icy grey sky fastest

and with the least cuts, bruises

or black eyes


what can i possibly actually know

or care about enough to know

i’m just feeling things and typing them on a keyboard

i don’t think i want to write poetry anymore

i think i have exhausted anything i had to say

my clumsy human body

collapsing onto a mattress

supported only

by worn metal springs