h.b.irwin

no teleology

In Uncategorized on December 10, 2010 at 10:20 pm

here is a love thought, poet:

 

How many celibacies are born breech? Or, how do saints occupy their minds? I once popped a rubber band off of Christ’s cross, it snapped across two thousand years and flung out into a never-ending expanse of commercial television lighting up land we’ve always lived on.

Dear saint, the most sincere searches always end in failure or low-wage jobs. If one thing is true, it’s that.

 

 

here is tough love, poet:

 

Mark it. It’s 9:55 a.m. and I’ve already thought about smashing my head with a brick.

“ Anyone ever tell you you’re obnoxious?” the brick says—glad to have been assertive, overdoing it for lack of practice.

 

 

here is a poet, poet:

 

If you can enjoy a thing, fall over & onto it. You are a paper knife in a universe where solids don’t exist. If you can stare at a thing and it stares back, reach for the thing; fuck it—with your fingers, if that’s what you’ve got. See, everything is rapidly descending  into  dust, and  conspiring  within itself  to  reassemble  into  a  land  we’ve  never lived on. So

eat the thing whole. Eat it.

 

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