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P
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Your face is standing near the door of my sadness,

inside a house made of nothing, pressing against the plexiglass

 

of the shooting range of my depression, in goggles & determination

the surround sound of the bullseye target, the bullet of

 

amnesia, the grenade of memory—Fall stains, ochre sorrow

and turquoise pain and then the umbrella catches the rainshower—

 

of melancholy. You are lost in your thoughts: I was just a door

you couldn’t unlock and the clouds hover over us like tàu vũ trụ,

 

its aluminum façade a second mirror or lake for our hidden sky

that night I refused to make love to the five different fires of mania

 

or to a reticent patio sitting alone in a sphinxlike forest—

all the appliances in this vacant house are charged to a wall,

 

plunging ennui into the abyss of my nearly empty expression,

a depravity of modernity, & beyond it, the inevitable void,

 

the illusions of subsistence cleaving ethos by ethos

into a vocal cord outsung by an un-sonic veil—a fog of damnation:

 

it’s not a polar bear crying into a pinecone, but a bush

hushed by loneliness, hallucinations, & despondency &

 

insulated from the turbine of painkillers & antidepressants,

I am standing against the basin of time, near an Android phone—

 

a device that can’t mirror the higher strata of my subconscious

an electronic ruler to post-measure history against history:

 

If a smartphone has to announce to the world that it is smart

It’s like telling an ego that its self-image belongs to the number zero,

 

whose magnitudes are reduced to a disarrangement of binary codes:

she/her, their/them, he/him, she/him, he/her, their/she, it/they,

 

and who is right to say: gender isn’t an emotional game of Tetris

a collapsing playground of incongruency, sadder than conformity?

 

Our psyche is walking around in an anthropogenic beauty parlor

waking up gas stations, spas & saunas, lawnmowers, nail salons by

 

driving a bipolar drone called being human into a polar bear

whose coat is a sad case of dandruff and thinks that hyperthermic

 

intraperitoneal chemotherapy is a kind of climate change or

an interactive 3-D simulator only seen in war zones.