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Trapdoor Fucking Exit, Part 1

Andrew Mister

              People who come out of nowhere to try to put into words
              any part of what goes on in their heads are pigs


Yesterday, woke past noon
and noticed through the window
like an airplane suspended
in that perfect sky’s changing
                                          a bough.
Sat down and made a list
of things that I ask of life:
                  1) let me have sex
                  when I feel like it
                  2) let me shut up
                  every once in a while
                  3) let my drug dealer
                  call me back
                  Stopped short
         because the list thing
wasn’t working.
It’s just the blank mind
that’s killing me, I mean
what am I thinking about:
thinking. On the street
car windshields look like
miniature lakes pocked
with clouds. People
are speaking in headlines.
I am getting high and
watching Seinfeld.
No, I’m not, I’m writing
but I’d like to be watching
anything other than the sun
suffocate beneath a pillow.
And it’s not yesterday,
it’s today: we are not
“you and I” anymore.
Not for now at least.
Each word is a wish
to move beyond the world
or that the world might collapse
beneath its description
with which I know
I need a lot of help
but I’m just trying to say
what everyone already knows
about themselves about me.

There is a message from you
on the machine saying
“hold your breath” or
“don’t hold your breath”
I’m not sure which.
We are not “you and I”
anymore, anyway. There are
things to get excited about,
things I’d like to forget
about myself. There are things
that you do that will always
annoy me:
                  1) no matter what
                  you will stir
                  your coffee
                  with a spoon
                  and then leave
                  that spoon
                  (a) on the table,
                  (b) on the kitchen
                  counter, (c) on
                  your desk.
That’s enough things for now.

Andrew Mister

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