I cannot write Poetry, a poem
I once dissected a fetal pig. It smelled like atheism and art.
My brother is lonely in Baltimore studying to be a doctor like William Carlos Williams. Perhaps he will write intestinal stories and poems in the snaking hours spent away from the body.
His hands are not as steady as mine but his heart is sharper. I was born to be a surgeon. I know this because I am afraid of the intricate and the organic.
It seems appropriate that I am not doing what I am meant to do, which is something I cannot explain.
I am afraid of the intricate and organic because I am drawn to its slime and its dark throb and the prospect of touching the quivering new mouths of severed arteries is like prayer.
When I pray it is an orifice of horror and pain, the edges of pure love.
Which is only known through what I eat. The sick saltiness of fried bacon, the shiny quality of a fulfilled pair of lips. When I love someone I think about eating them and my nails grow dirty and long.
Perhaps this is not love, but it is what I know. Everything else is too political and I am not a competent citizen.
The pig organ is very similar to the human organ.
Ben had a shiny face and a big mouth. From what I hear he became somewhat of a pig in regards to the ladies. But I see sweetness in the people I meet and he was a sweet. It is hard to think of the bracelets of vomit that ringed him at the precipice of frenzy, the anorexia and aporia that teased him with little thongs of death.
Sometimes he was filled with joy. He was poor and worked a million jobs so he could school. He was poor and white and skinny and self death was a warm sea.
My love is alive and pale and skinny and I can see his clavicles ringing like winter bells and perhaps I want to put my teeth there and suck the bones. His favorite nonfiction book is by Iris Chang, the rape of Nanking.
Sometimes I don’t want to write poems but I am not good at anything else.
Poems are stupid like pigs and make me cruel and fat.
Someone once accused me of being culturally white and it is true. I am so white that I can’t see my own dandruff.
When I saw The Elephant Man and when he said my life is full because I know I am loved or something I wept and wept and wept and wept and wept because of dramatic irony and because I know his brothers.
Only cry alone, what I do. I am obsessed with my weakness and do not want to share. I hate Barney and I hate to hurt.
I plod through the world thinking oh no oh no oh no oh no
because I see things like burning ladies
and people with no faces and I cannot do anything and there is a certain agricultural manufacturing of sorrow that happens within me.
I am also aware of more nuanced conditions of existence
and of strength, which is strange and mythical to me.
I am of the feeble fever
the boar luxury
the surveyor of suffering’s safari
including my own, the tiny spit pearl of universal want.
There is an irony that runs through my whiteness.
I no longer aspire to be great. oh no oh no oh no oh
Throngs of pain sheep dazzle my mind at night.
My body is feeble and fatty. I cannot build a house. I watch through the pinhole in the door the big bad. The big bad speaks to me and I watch.
I know of a great uplift like the flight of flesh and I have seen the flying pig. Maybe this ugliness will flap its paper wings.
It is a modern world full of modern pigs, dark, blubbery pink pigs capable of ecstasy.
I want to be like Mother Teresa and carry my emptiness
deep inside like a pearl.
I want to fold my brothers into my decay.