Author Archives: Zak

ask more
of the system.
the kidneys.
liver.
more
of the stomach.
ask more
of the blood.

you are
a real person
and i need
to treat you
as such.

nine minutes and one second for you to be you

at night, outside
the tanks. the field,
full of singing
insects. full
of light. you
cannot hear it, can
no longer hear it.

it is a small town, though the size is unimportant. he is pleased with the tiny japanese fire truck. he has imported it, brought it to the small town. the size, though, is unimportant.

it isn’t something that needs to be understood. it isn’t something to understand. what does it mean to you? that is, then, what it means. all of it, anyway, moving air.

i’ve made
my problems everyone
else’s. the woman
at the store; i
am depressed, i need
you to help me. ok,
she replies. have
you tried this? this
always helps me. ok,

“it’s just a droplet of
water, probably
sweat, on the camera

the air a pervasiveness
of tin, aluminum, lithium, and
slate, long ago faded
into our collective
background. we
are each of us
an insoluble crowding
of ghosts; together,
we all compete in our creation
of reality.

you belong to
a family that
you do not belong
to. you pay
them fifteen thousand
dollars a year to
meet their children.
to smile awkwardly
at them in the
driveway. to
listen to them
through the walls.

attempt to find
reasons. persistence
of autonomic. tidal
muttering of need,
desire. fresh
from rest and
still, restless.

you’ve been
there for four
months, still, upon
entering, occasionally,
unaccounted, the bright
smell of paint.

supposed to go to
bike park? supposed
to walk up mountain?
supposed to revel in
unhindered sun?

“hey buddy”,
the dog does not
leap from the open
window and tear from
you your throat. you

you. you lift them
easily, carry them
easily.

lie on your floor
and listen
to the ingress
of water.

the plan is to
overeat.

you have not been
discovered. a new
neighborhood, a same
mountain.

i applied for and was
offered a job while still
early in my twenties.

the exhaust is made to emit a whistling sound. extra money is paid so that when the accelerator is pressed, the exhaust pipe whistles.

this Summer you don’t do anything. you don’t go anywhere. you don’t talk to anyone.

doesn’t seem like something
you’d want to do, yet, watch
it being done; paint
the grout white (mistake;
too white). build

you are considerably older than they are. your leg has begun, with startle, seemingly without any impetus, its perversion of form. your mind having begun this long ago.