Metalogue
I guess I should write
another poem.
Did you really think I
needed another meta?
My life feels fake
enough as it is.
I keep trying to write
myself something I can believe in, but I'm
Not a playwright, just
a poet, I'm not so good at round
Characters my parts
are all bits and clichés:
The rogue, the
romantic, the spazcase.
The intellectual, the
workaholic, the saint.
Even my tongue feels
like fragments and my brain forgets how to work
In one language not постаянный, I'm kind of feeling like
I'm losing it I
want to lose it so I can maybe find a different story.
There's no such thing as an unwritten life.
My hands are so
inkstained and I've been asking the
Author for a
break, I'm not sure I like this play,
Everything a
game, and even my mind is a stage
For the parts
that I play:
The hubris, the
victim, the hero, the plague.
I've pulled so
many rabbits out of this hat,
There's no magic
left.
Asking another
girl if she'll run away with me,
Just to know if
somebody really would think that about me.
And if you say
yes, you obviously don't understand the irony or complexity.
You obviously
don't understand that this is all just a
Game.
I tried my best
to go off-roading as soon as I got my career
card and my first
life tile. Skipped the obligatory pink statuary
In the passenger
seat and I've made my own way.
All of my friends'
lives look like atari 2D. Even the ones I
Wist for. They all seem...too easy.
Glass is incredibly malleable. But if you really want to get
This kind of facet-age,
you gotta eventually break,
The more pieces, the
more surface area, to run your fingers over
A mile wide and a half-inch deep
I cannot feel because I feel everything.
I don't know if people
understand that self-immolation, self-forgetfulness,
Feeling completely
lost or immersed is the deepest longing inside of me
To step outside the
mirrors and the out-of-body narration for a few moments and
Get lost in the moment.
I make mistakes so I
can feel a little more surface area
I put my face in a
book i don't like my face
It's seems like a
little avatar for everyone else's crazy.
An icon of an idea
that I've been steadily undermining and erasing.
And you still believe
in me, didn't you notice the image was meant to be
Self-effacing.
I don't actually talk
like this. No one would understand me,
ESL world. Have my words atrophied?
I remember when I
learned to write letters, line upon line, cursive, but it
Seemed no one could
read what I was writing.
I remember reading
books instead of reading my life.
The tea leaves are
green, yes the leaves were green.
Everything is stationaery,
a stop waiting, a fancy script with some flowers.
I've started to stop
seeing the point in flirting, started to see end games.
Everywhere end games,
expiration dates, RIP, temporary
I'm home but I don't
have any soulmates.
I'm home but I have to
buy a visa every six months that says I have
The right to exist in
this version of me.
There are any number
of reasons they could deport me.
Today we saw a car
crash the skidmark squealing like slow motion
As a small Toyota
skidded all the way across the intersection to it's smashed
Hood destiny. I almost stepped out into traffic twice,
rubber-necking,
But Zhenya saved
me. She takes my breath away but even
lust
And friendship seem
distant and mundane.
I'm not sure if my
launch into orbit is scary or comforts me.
I'm liable to do
anything,
Chasing the wind cuz
it helps me breathe.
It reminds me of a
something, a feeling.
My Odyssey feels like
a dick and jane,
My opus feels like a top
40 refrain
Identity is a con.
Story is a con.
Trajectory is for
physicists.
I'm quite skeptical
for being so skeptical of skeptics.
I do believe in a
purpose for being but my card tricks
All seem the same, and
even if I pick out yours,
It means I'm just good
at manipulating.
I should sleep more.
I can think more
clearly.
I've got nothing left
but a bunch of sticks strung together on
A page.
i i i.
srsly?
I hate selfies.
