frere puer aeternus

kid nocturne            a narrated fool winnows through the first page,
through the second, through the next and then into the rejuvenile buzzers
that bing him awake            as if there is no    asleep        whereby there is no rest
whereby he pierces his way into others' lives          folding sniffs of alertness in his pouch
EVERY TIME he overhears those times when people feel still, and well aware of their livelihoods
     the blessings between breaths             the mornings you splurge a little
                   add sugar to your cup of coffee                 


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above, picture of a screen shot taken from essajetticks' instagram page

FANGIRL-ING & NEVER REVIEWING #1: Anna Vitale

oh woman of Detroit noise and Drakian tendencies!
how can I ever review your books when they view me reversely
and strike chords I wasn't sure I possessed:
the unspeakable hunger for resisting the existential dredge
that lays its amorphous body across all:
the car dripping with rain outside Roberto's house,
the lucky I counted myself with to speak with you about our
lives in a quiet car, and afterward laughing with Soham
about the strange questions we passed around:
the surreality of giving you my underlined Cioran
in a bustling H&M, and the gift of a turkey wrap
from you knowing I was running around
and probably over-coffeed -
oh woman of premonition and kin,
who wrote dreams years before I thought
to dream them: the pink chap I always return to.
And the gift of reading next to your beautiful bookshelf
and the night emanating before with shit talking
and literary looming and chicken farming and pizza.
oh woman of darkness who heart breaks
but gives life and certainly runs with her woes,
but the running never ceases, oh woman
living to her name, surpassing her name,
that vitality.

Unknown Pleasures - poetry by Anna Vitale

after noon

Devonte Hynes zone out music

I think about a silent cottage where humans have to constantly touch the outside
to keep it so : it's an exercise to exorcise the demons of our guilt,
feeling all types of ways for not calling our families, our sisters,
our fathers, our nieces.
It's a melancholy fielded fire.
To cool down we gaze outside at the twinkling greenery off great
limbs testament to time : the trees that umbrella our feet
when we knead soil to feel we are nature again.

Later, in the city,
I think about running for buses, that loneliness of it being all on you,
and the loneliness too of humans in their cars looking at the next
human in their car. Little metal cubicle. Little feet in an incomprehensible
world.

But I think about pianos mostly. That's a lie:
I think about people like pianos, as in heavy and impossible to ignore,
with endless and strange tunes.

Pianos lurking through underbrush sounding
like ocean when touched.
Detectives silently watching us soothe
the outside, this ghost cottage, where all we do
is "should" ourselves into circles.

Aging like trees with rings of guilt and lonely feet.