life is for losers

i saw them live 
in Burlington. a woman 
i eventually orbited 
was at the show—months 
before we knew 
of each other’s existence. 
i still talk 
to her from time
to time, in fact just
yesterday sent her 
a package of smoked
fish. we were (and
are) both 
tremendous 
in our mental illnesses; 
we’d fight 
and grip and break
and reassemble and
annihilate each 
other. i sometimes
hate her. sometimes, love 
her. she texts me when she’s 
lonely. sometimes she 
gets naked and asks me 
for pictures. we are 
both naked 
in our need. i sometimes 
hate that i still 
orbit her, but also 
not. life
is a broken yolk;
it’s likely i 
waste its thickness 
with sobriety and desire, 
my sighing 
foolishness. buddhism 
and the muttering violence 
of kindness. i
remember the religion 
of oblivion, the dogma 
of indifference, can
still taste it
dissolving on the corners 
of my oblong tongue.  
presque vu, some
might say, i might
say, if i could remember.
i think you’ll like 
this band, the lead
singer is erotic like
you are. i know 
you’re no longer
in orbit of music
as you once were,
i think this band might 
pull you back. remember?
what you once tried to 
remember? what was it
we were talking
about? why have i written
you?

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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