this is my brain on cortisol addiction: this is my brain at
this fucking job — I’m kidding, of course; here it is poetry
and we transcend! the turn towards — writing about
other people, the fiction writer as creep rather than
solipsist; I have failed, but who else will creep out my
infected heart-box, my gutted-out self-hatred: envy
at this rate, is a sin, forgive me Father. jealousy for concentrated culture
and time not smutted up with tension-stress,
I go home I walk it off it sits inside and waits —
the moment, the summer, rots.
poem: postmortem
the last pavilion 