poem: Ash Wednesday

recovered anomaly, the zine has never been more
dead. histrionic contrarian – she has recently been upset
whenever she is located, discovered,
identified. high in neuroticism and agreeableness – I am glad
i do not live inside your head. we have all been
overexposed to personality, if i am different
I am cursed – if i am the same –
i am cursed. the reaper comes comes over the blue
hazed fields, looking into photographs I feel
a slowness, there is no fast skip,
the face asks me to lean in lean in. and are you aware
that you are participating in the degradation
of art? yes, look at this mallow slow-yellow
room, the carefulness of the shelves. look at
Christ’s body carried in the S-shape
characteristic of mannerism, when there was careful
individualization against the relightening of
Europe. i am, of course, aroused
and slick for nationalism – i realize that earth and
my too-thin skin are temporal. the zine is
just that, she writes back The Idiot joins the ranks
of unread but listed books, one day my discipline
will match my intelligence will match
my trembling and regurgitated self-worth.