there’s change and then there’s change

there’s change and then there’s change
there’s a mistake and there’s a mistake
there’s love and then there’s love
there’s luck and then there’s luck
there’s God and then there’s God
there’s race and then there’s race
there’s gender and then there’s gender
there’s art and then there’s art
there’s music and then there’s music
there’s pizza and then there’s pizza
there’s poetry and then there’s poetry
there’s your feet and then there’s your feet
there’s a dream and then there’s a dream
there’s your career and then there’s your career
there’s your wife and then there’s your wife
there’s the car and then there’s the car
there’s the sun and then there’s the sun
there’s the carpet and then there’s the carpet
there’s the blood and then there’s the blood
there’s his stain and then there’s his stain
there’s a note and then there a note
there’s a pattern and then there’s a pattern
there’s something beaten to death and then there’s an armchair you sit comfortably in.

what’s poetry anymore?

what’s poetry anymore when someone’s going to hurt themselves?
you can’t stop it.

you can’t whisk love into their life.

you can’t.

there’s all these futile, cataloged wonder working devices and
then there’s the hit to the face.

know your place.
there is no freedom.

not from the pain.
only from the fear.
only from the doubt.
only from a head hurtling like wind into the fits.

only from being dehumanized.
only from dehumanizing.

humans die, suffer, fail.

humans live, love, laugh.

these things are named the same
these things have the same letters
these things have the same sounds
these things couldn’t be more different
and meanwhile so completely the same.

there’s you and then there’s me and then there’s dancing.

there’s futility and then there’s effort and then there’s rage.

i don’t know.
i can’t fix you.
i can only pray.

i could hate you but that wouldn’t work.

i could mutate.
i could reverse.

but it’s hard to dance backwards once you’ve found yourself out on a tight rope.

i keep thinking about your peg leg
and where my arm pit used to be

and how the jilt of a pattern
was so comfortable.

and how the rules made sense
even when the rules were no rules
but now that the rules really are
broken and i have to love you
suddenly it’s
“but the rules”
but the rules.
butting up against safety and sanity.

there is no poe-metric measured solution
for this device’s output.

my heart
rendered worried
searching for love
when you’ve chopped it off

but my love had nothing to do with walking.

and i’ll be shot standing beside you.
but perhaps that’s my suffering.

my crutch to fling.
my code to fetch.
my cleaving to float.

one cable.
one cable.
one.

the patterns aren’t the savior.
it’s not that simple.
you know that.

right?

it’s not the law
but the living
moment
of
inertia
spiraling love into a form unseen but felt like a washing wave dryly pushing you out.
pushing you up.
so that you can push.

so push.
m.

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