I am in anguish, but I do not know its shape.

Anguish of the unemployed? of the undetermined?

of the lacking? Anguish in three dimensions, purple

red plumes, roiling

Java script update. Mail order survey.

understand now that I am not so grand.

I am not so harmonious, I do not tick in

working order. mutations abound. I could be slow

enough to fuck up the headcount. who am I with right now?





pure upset. despair. like a zit ignored. wailing, overwhelmed.

baby, childlike, infant conscience. straightened out and managed.

oh, so managed.



shall we look at everything but him? or so the saying goes.

saying. compulsion. no. who am I with?



I want. I want and want. I want comfort. I want safety. I cover

this with layers of hardness and faux-knowing. I do not know. I only want.

the layers conflict and confuse. they are disparate semi-translucent planes, always

lifting and intersecting, my self bisected and chiseled home. a vigilance, always

as though this writing must be good, must be poetry, must be marketable.



I must not write what I want. I must write what a Good Writer would write. I must not make mistakes. I must not choose words that do not make sense. To whom? To everyone. It must make sense to everyone. If it does not, it is worthless. It is worthless. It is worthless.



And so it goes. Tired, whining. I thought we were past this. I thought the pills did something.

I thought we were free from the burdens of personhood. A part that– well.



You’re a fucking moron. Naive little shit. Of course you aren’t free from any burdens. You’re stupid for thinking so.



And so on.





So many parts, ignored and battling. Wrestling. Jaws open, surging, teeth into flesh, disgusting. Disgusting. They disgust me, each other, everyone. How I can stand to be a self is unthinkable. Unconscionable. This part the most dangerous of all. When you are disgusted with life, you can stomach its disposal. And so it returns to the depths, not without a sneer.



Another, a stranger. Complex, somehow wistful. Jaded. Eyes narrowed. How many times have we done this? What will it bring us? Oh, the tired father. You, I recall.



Yet another. Unfamiliar, needy. To be seen, to be loved. To be heard and understood.







the place that contains the list of the containers of words