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the myth of the end of the world

for Lewis Freedman



ok so let there be a pedal point, in thought a sustained tone that other thoughts can come and go


gutbucket back to thread and thread to fiber


spirit of the shack


i tell Lewis “well i also want something other than time” & then wonder,

did i write a poem by doing it?


the myth of the end of the world is a big stupid tree


let me be both record and instrument, flame and felicity, realize only now the weird perfume this thinking’s dowry


—i woke up in the bathtub all like—


why push away a barge whose already proximity a gift


in the blue mouth of drifting constantly upwards


honestly what are poets even talking about i mean i love us but


no the end no the world no the


carbon surround threading an aurelia of after which not


geobarricade a heap of mattresses smoldering obscenity settles


but also just as a very incoherent person who sometimes needs to be loved


wrap it up i’ll take it