October 30th 2021
and throw your face through your face
– Graham Foust
Cancel every meeting with the sky.
Forward all my calls to the colour-
field. I’ll be staying in the abstract, today.
It’s time to claim to fail to climb
out from the depths of my mouth. Let the oat
milk curdle. Forget to freeze the halibut.
Regret is finding the rub of the truth that even
hitting backspace simply sends you to the future,
a newer blankness filling with almost exactly
what went before. Now I’m receding into now
regret’s this week’s worst hangover, a pain like fireworks
through mud, like trying to throw your face through your face
or the boiling veins in your eyeballs. Still, what we do
here’s the stuff of gods. The roots are also the cosmos.