By Jax NTP
collarbones and cognitive hazards
what do you know about productive misery?
si tu vois ma mère, you’ll know how to be nervous
in between a name and an alias, when the naked
knuckle of speech turns white. if that’s the case,
would you consider your insomnia counterproductive
misery? when wind is stuck to the throat of your words
there is another licorice song in your esophagus,
within that song, words are tactile until they exit
your mouth cannibalizing the milky nipples of space.
static imperatives fill the silence with constant chatter.
but even words you trust won’t stay where you send
them. you want to go home to paint, to find comfort
in that public privacy, then walk around naked singing
gloomy sunday, not billie holiday’s truffled number,
but the hungarian suicide version until you can
memorize the paralysis: what it means
to be in a room, with her,
sitting next to you.