n'est pas

Here's a poem (i guess) I wrote some time ago. The title is "a poem (I guess) I wrote some time ago":

Language is speaking us from the space between why/and/how. Language is leading us from listless to lost, repeating such as
We move like ghosts on worn-thin video, slow film on film speed. Tell me what to speak for and I’ll show me mine:
“in-between, mid sentence, mid circular logic, mid temperate zones, cells listless by mid division, no opinions, just lifetimes lost in pursuit.” You’re not killing time, you’re forcing it into slow suicide. Your godot failed all twelve steps, beaten and bloody.
One more cigarette and I’m finding a glove to land on, the signified and the silence. When evolution runs out of time it starts moving at will.
Moves me past language, past the lost and over the past. I am lack of absence, you are the space at my end.






I don't know how people write poetry without feeling like total douches. It's the most self-indulgent thing, ever. Has to be.