When people call me Christ,
Christ, I don’t know, I assume
Something different for him. I
Assume the absent G in Jesus.
Gsus Christ can be an ok dude
Given the right circumstances
Or weather. It’s getting cold
Outside, for instance, and the
Grass has been let go to grow
One last time before I hate my
-self and I haven’t even let my
-self float down a fucking river,
But my desire is way too deflated
After my friend Katie had to be
Taken to the emergency room
After letting herself float down
a river too cold for
her body to
not get hypothermia, and it was
like one hundred and four degrees
outside when it happened and I
think that’s pretty fucked up. Think
about it. I mean Gsus. Her experience
sounded pleasantly disorienting, a tough
ride on those roads you only ride down
in summer, like with a long tunnel or the
longest wrapping paper tube you’ve ever
seen through with mild to moderate deliria.
So maybe I will float down a river before I
Just wont or just can’t or what if I died or
Lost my ability to walk or see or smell before
I ever get a chance to. I’m going to be ok if
I don’t because I really don’t see myself
Dying or getting any sicker than I already am,
And there really isn’t any kind of scenario
I can hypothetically put my future into that
Ends with me being a quadri/paraplegic, which
Is likely what I would still think if, say, I some
-how did become paraplegic, it would be very
Difficult for me to put myself in a hypothetical
Situation where I would ever become a quadri
-plegic . I think the worst of it is, though, my
Heart would ache as much as it does now and
I can run right out of this house right this very
Moment but know I will never do that again.
I’m terrified of becoming something I know I
Could never be. But I’m already sick. I’ve always
Been sick because of my courage to know what
I know or don’t know when they’re really just
The same damn thing. Like meeting people in
New places and becoming friends with them
Only so they fill the absences your other friends
Previously held. I feel guilty for that a lot and know
I probably shouldn’t but I’m just too Paul-less and
Justin-less and Mike(y)-less to be bothered with
Harvesting their replacements. Sometimes when
Nothing meets nothing absolutely NOTHING happens
Like right now I’m just writing in this really weird way,
I feel like this is what Paul feels like when he riffs away
For awhile. And that’s probably the completely wrong
Way to go about understanding my sickness, but some
-times it’s just stupid to be afraid to start something.
Sometimes it’s just really hard to quit what you know
You probably should like taking drugs or drinking insane
Amounts of alcohol every day or having life be just
As helpful to itself as life would be blasted from a canon
While you were in a coma. I mean, you could technically
Say you were shot out of a canon in your life, but first
Of all, no one would believe you, and second of all,
Why would you want to do that anyway if you could just
Sleep literally all the time? I write so much more poems
In my sleep. I am more or less the most famous poet
I’ve ever encountered when I’m sleeping. Not in my
Dreams, but the retrospective contentment and lack
Of desire to even know what a poem is that makes
For some of the best lines or grouping of lines I’ve
Ever thought about. I rarely care about what people
Say to me, but not because I don’t think it could be
Helpful or hurtful or pleasant or lame, but because
I’m so so tired whenever that happens, which is a lot
Of the time, that I physically cannot hear what people
Are saying. That’s only somewhat true, but you get
The idea. But here’s the most important part of my
Entire poem. It’s been asked, by my mother specifically,
If there are any poems that aren’t so sad, and the answer
Is no. But not because poems can’t not be sad, it’s because
Poems aren’t ever sad. If that’s difficult for you to
understand,
Well then read sad poems a lot but when you start feeling
Yourself becoming less of yourself because you’re sad or
Lonely or just nothing, think about Paul Clark starting the
Row row row your boat song and eventually everyone
In the entire world singing row row row your boat,
because it is all joy.
River mud’s perfect vocabulary and
Ink and hatred and further disclose
And sympathetics. The moon itself
Illuminates of elsewhere
You too where, mint garland,
Varsity luster, a latch in Montana
Happens and, the, moon illuminates.
You are to disclosed by mistake.