Walter Benjamin

I remember practicing for pain by holding ice cubes our need for each other
outweighs the potential, not actual, harm hold ground for a specific cause beyond
the minutes of my lifespan waiting behind the wall we crouched holding hands
breathing hard I am still too desperate for ennui can we rethink desire for difficulty
as inhabiting excellence pursuit of self is eased by looking up; I’m still searching
sliding into a slump on the ground feels better than posture the boba tea of redemption
requires a special straw separating holiness from religion until there is only lightning
your version and mine are different; compromise can be a form of domination
my preference is to be a giant brick of love

Walter Benjamin

A child is an ongoing cataclysm of the future self.

I’m ambivalent about the prohibition

on encountering my past self during time travel.

If I don’t die, the clamoring second choice

is the most basic of nature poems.

Straight line elegance is no guarantee: clumsy work matters.

What’s the correct instinctual reaction to brake lights.

God knows my beacon is loud and rumpled.

I meant what’s the correct institutional animal.

Strapped to the present I find cyclically diminishing

attachment to my lover the only thing I can’t let go.

Have I in a sense moved my fashion forward.

Nothing is pending.

Chronology being therefore useless

we are an immaculate—beholden—historicity.

Walter Benjamin

here is the pond of water for sitting, getting your drawers wet

walk around with soggy pants

I am the mother who left you there I am that mother that one

in the soggy drawer aftermath

the beak of purity beckons like the plucked vein from a chicken thigh

craft will only take me so far

what is the word to be associated with

the breath of murder blows now on me

reading the ripple, translation is the reflection

the translation is you

o rippled lover! throw your voice on the treetops for the sake of return!

half the face droops

whiskey, chicken casserole, a stickshift stuck in reverse