i am a work of my own art--
seeing this very clearly, the choices i make
in self-presenting, the choice made
inherent
in how to see what i do,
or how to see that which is done to me.
the desperate bravado
of a show of feeling--a feeling, i think,
too deep to be felt.
so it must be shown,
shoved through to the surface, spilled out
like coarse-grained salt on a dark wood table.
my mind never wanted to be in the same place as itself.
sepulchral hands, it thought, wandering a keyboard,
and blood metaphors
to thicken the words--
i was a child. i am proud of that
and there is no saying i won't regress.
trying to tell the truth
when it is so easy
to make ritual
dropping science like galileo dropped the orange
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