98.

i once saw many coffins being unloaded out of the back of a tractor trailer.
i sometimes wish that I still had my foreskin.
death is a mirror,
everything reflective holds a masterful potential...
be careful, that which you now call sacred will soon make you a slave.
unintentionally, sometimes he finds himself standing in the mirror wearing women's clothing,
but only when he's alone.
i am my son, my father, my mother, and myself.
i am the sun, still further, an Other to myself.
keep the mind as far as possible from the terrifying sound of matter,
you can not become a god, all you can do is crush those who think of themselves as one.
the newspaper, pornographic photos in a magazine, books of philosophy, and piles of money
they all burn to ash when they're thrown into a fire.
we have yet begun to understand the effects of noise,
are you, too, overflowing with words you do not have?
consciousness is a congenital hallucination.
consciousness is overgrown horns that weigh down the head.
consciousness is overlapping bits of material knotting.
consciousness isn't.
we're in search of vistas where it's no longer of use to refer to one's self as i.
even our fucking diaries are written for others.
how much less hateful would everyone be if none of us wore a face?
come put your mouth around my adam's apple.
who i am with you is more than i've ever been with anyone.
i'm terrified that someday i'll forget the way you say my name.
the challenge of life is to occupy the motion that you already are.
but eventually you're left with your body which can't love you
and a will that can't save you.
your professors, they never laugh, even when they're amused.
one time, on the bus i watched someone eat.
i couldn't help but imagine what the inside of their mouth tasted like.
i felt sickened.
this is empathy.
no matter who is in bed with us, we always sleep alone.
everything is melting.
the sun is shining.
i'd rather be cold than close the window.
i'm overeager to teach you how to ride a bike in the city.
we cry with our eyes open.
we kiss with our eyes closed.
we go to an art museum and throw black wax on all the paintings.
in a snowstorm we go lay in a field, we long to become mere form.
if you're lucky, you'll be born more than once
everywhere there are new wombs to emerge from.