Romance #1

like some 14 year old girl waiting for her crush to glance back i 

keep waiting for capitalism to end

but it won’t end

my adult life lover states

on what will end:

Libraries 
Birds 
Retirement 
Recess
Sprinting during recess 
Hispid Hares
Starfish shaped like stars 
Inconvenience
Wrinkles 
Sunken cheeks 
Living corals 
Protests
Anti-Nuclear Proliferation 
Non-Aggression Pacts 
Dragonflies
Mangosteen 
DMZs
Trade Embargos 
Leopards, all kinds 
Sawfins
Rewilding
Infiltration Plot/Dreams 
Oak, Trees.
Partulina Variabilis 
Partulina Splendida
(-------) Violence Prevention Programs
News. News:

Might a few jellyfish survive—

counting till revelations becomes part of—

On Endings & Longing

You spend too much time watching detective television. You like procedurals because it feels like ideal work: there is movement and there is predictability. The formulas go as such: One, the detective is a smart, elusively attractive thirty-something year old with attachment issues. Two, the serial killer and/or one off criminal becomes their fixation. Three, evidence is gathered, presented, refuted, and reorganized so that four, the criminal can be caught, incarcerated. You understand after some time that the only way the episode/program will conclude is if the criminal is captured. Thus, a narrative structure is set up, and with it, a desire. 

You begin to tell people about your theory: there are too many television shows and movies where the criminal is chased, and incarceration remains the conclusion. You tell people about the anxiety we might feel when the chase becomes extended, and thus the relief the conclusion (incarceration) brings. You emphasize that abolition will remain out of reach if it remains out of fictional reach. How to de- link capture from the end? How to want things to remain, extended? 

You slowly understand the purpose of the couplet: conclusion/incarceration. It stems from the widespread belief that criminals should be sent away; not seen or heard from. It stems from an understanding that a forced conclusion is the ultimate punishment. Their lives become fictionally and otherwise foreclosed. There are many books and articles that have been written about the unjust logic of this rationale, the structural racism embedded into the sentencing system, racial capitalism and the acceleration of the prison industrial complex and they must be read. And you will cite books for reference but this poem is not an evidentiary hearing, it is not attempting to convince those unconvinced neither is it speaking to those only convinced, here you want to ruminate on how to rupture a conclusion that has become so familial that it brings relief. How to rupture against relief. 

You spend the month of november downloading and deleting apps invented to obscure loneliness. You are in search of a transitional object but feel this is the most inappropriate profile description. No one, not even you, can handle this much brutality. You want to try pretending to be a human but can’t bear being around anymore fascists so you list your interests as: prison abolition, baking, and coral reefs. You spend the next month referring your matches to articles on the carceral state. In your teens you flirted by pretending to know less. In your thirties you send links to long peer-reviewed articles from legal journals. 

you go on two dates where you are told that your interest in politics is cute and you think, there’s a higher chance the serial killer is me. you wait an hour to tell them it’s patronizing, what they said an hour ago, is patronizing. They have already forgotten because who remembers the things they say and why do you bring things up so much after the fact. You are now exposed as the uncool subject who analyzes comments from an hour ago, who wants apologies for them from speakers who do not remember. If there was another way for you to be don’t they know you would try. 

You think this poem will not age well. What will be the point of these poems when there are 50 harvests left. And then again, when there are 30 harvests left will they continue to teach the drove of white men with bad diets, bad hair, bad gender and racial politics, who nevertheless were able to supposedly write universally about love and life. You think it’s true not much here is relatable. You think it’s true that your condition, as constructed in this moment in this body in this corner is so specific you hope it fails reconstruction. If there are no more yous to be understood. When there are no more yous to be understood. 

You buy for a life you do not have. Silk blouses. Off the shoulder tops. Long floral dresses. It is cold where you are. You are without answers imploding into yourself and continue to search for the perfect white wrap dress. Pearl drop earrings. refresh. release. descend. 

You think about Jean Rhys’ good morning midnight and about the main character’s obsession with gloves and lipstick while grieving her abortion. Spoiler alert you don’t find out about that till later. You think about the emails you’ve received from stranger men about how difficult it would be to end capitalism. Men always think you don’t know and they gotta explain. It’s their love language really. Explaining shit to you treating you like the metaphorical mother they abandoned. 

You watch too many vlogs made by young women about their lives under late capitalism. It’s shot by their unthreatening boyfriends, who seem so loving and kind and helpful. There’s a dissertation in here you think, about the adaptive gaze. As in, we grow to see the way they see themselves then the way their boyfriends do. Anyway their justifications and negotiations with consumer culture infuriate you. There’s so much choice based rhetoric and hackneyed self-help cutlets you feel hopeless. You think about We Charge Genocide about Tzara in Spain about Benjamin writing in Switzerland you think about all the women you love and have never seen. You think about all the calls made on behalf of nuance and free speech under fascism. Some people create death camps and other say let’s be kind to fascists we gotta understand their needs too it will take a while. Let’s convince fascists to step away from power. This way we can feel good about ourselves. 

This is the thing about narratives. Even when you believe they have nothing to do with you, they become part of you. Even if you have no belief in choice, capitalism, incarceration even if you have no reason to trust the police—if you subsume the arc of the story and you submit to its affective structure, and when and especially it becomes routine, it becomes part of you? How much has it become part of you. 

You tell another friend about your thesis. You state, in detective melodrama, incarceration is the conclusion. There is no end to the episode, no conclusion to the season without it. Everyone agrees and continues to download the latest crime drama anyway. You begin to understand your anxieties are yours and never yours. What did Raymond Williams call it—the “structure of feeling.” The affective tenor being negotiated, all that is fought for in the gutter zone, in the subtext called our lives. 

You become interrupted by falling in love. Amidst they tell you some their secrets and become afraid to break up with you. They think you will sell them out the way they do in spy films. You don’t know how to convince them that you’re not a spy you have no one to tell no one who cares all you want is to never hear from them again. All you want to do is forget this episode. They insist you want revenge. What a nail this instance. You are without specificity or cruelties this is the revenge. You have never held specificity or cruelties this is the revenge. 

You realize that the louder you become about abolition and the end of capitalism the more people become interested in what you’re wearing, who you’re dating, what you look like. You look like the unsuspecting secretary of somebody’s someone and this is the profession you provide in public to strangers in lingerie stores and cafes. Your lover tells you that this is the moralizing discourse many 

are trapped inside of. It’s the church model we are comfortable with and know. Example: the pastor has a critique of the world and understands salvation. The path to salvation includes no alcohol and not a lot of gay sex but maybe some lesbian sex and the pastor confesses he indulged in both before knowing god. But he doesn’t anymore. Because he doesn’t anymore he is the example. From his body comes the life model which is what one needs to be in order to have a critique. So critics of capitalism have to be like this confessional, moralizing pastor: somehow removed from capitalism and into shaming others. Fuck that shit. 

You know you’re infected and that’s your motivation for critique. You scream into your pillow that you don’t want this body and this life and that’s your motivation for critique. You understand how some people understand this so much and so deeply they abandon this world that’s your motivation for critique. You love and hate everything about yourself and that’s your motivation for critique. You want to be a different person every day and you know you are not that’s your motivation for critique. Fuck liberal activism and their small compact business models for revolution that’s your motivation for critique. 

You’re worried that everything you like about yourself is just what has been colonized so deeply that’s your motivation for critique. It’s inside every day and floods out the way poems do sometimes you would never pretend to know the better you would never pretend to be above it you would never prescribe anything to anyone who feels it too that’s your motivation for critique. 

You are repressed and unrepressed which means you are living in late capitalism. You diagnose your insides according to the blog posts, podcasts, quizzes available online and they all confirm that you are like the rest of them which is a relief. No more special or difficult. And what you have can be cured: procedures, walks to go on smoothies to make. They have thoughts on how to cure you and this is both liberating and crushing. People have spent lives studying compressions of you so you don’t have to and they have a plan. You are not alone this is not unique your repressed unrepression there are plans. 

You research the demise of debtors prisons because this is your life’s work: gathering evidence until the proof becomes accepted. You can already hear the criticism of skeptics. In their narrative discomfort they will argue debtor’s prisons are both unlike and like current prisons. It’s true, one could argue that debtors prisons never went away as the poor remain incarcerated but on the other hand, you repeat that a version of them did go away and that feels like a sliver of something to be repeated. The emphasis, you repeat, is that we invented something and then decide it did not need to exist. Is this not of interest to you? It’s made mortal and immortal. It can be made to decompose and vanish. Is this not of interest to you. 

You want to be held by someone who is ashamed to be with you. It’s been a long day and solace must be found so you go to the only place you know of for instantaneous kindness and softness: the subreddit forum on shoplifting. A place full of girls letting you know if the cameras record, if they’re monitored, how advance their zoom functions might be and the ratings for difficulty should you proceed. It’s so caring and full of warmth it’s what everyone thought the internet would be. A space for kindness amongst strangers working to slowly burn it all down. 

[i wrote something here but deleted it because i realized that it’s]

i wrote something here but deleted it because i realized that it’s 
just going to bring me more direct, personalized harassment. 

but this deletion will not be permanent. this deletion is 
temporary. 

so just that we’re clear in this deletion, if we don’t say your 
name immediately, we don’t address you immediately 

i will say your name directly at some point before i die 

 

Psalm

you don’t have to study to have
regardless of work there is a home
love is not a condition for safety
survival is possible so survival is guaranteed 
more 

             more 

is sequestered 
punishment is what was once enacted but 
can no longer be imagined.
an enlarged footnote—for memories 
Love is not the condition for safety 
but becomes a possibility


                          Amen 
 


 

 

 

 

Related Poems

All Money Is A Matter of Belief

                    Adam Smith
 
Every poet glistens with the dew
of money, but surely only some of them
truly have it. Never enough, wanting to know
what enough felt like, I buy fake versions
of the things I want on credit, my shelves
laden with zirconia, Prada knockoffs, and
pirated Oscar screeners. I’m driven by envy,
and gluttony, the desire to consume better
than anyone else, but the pleasure is only half
of what it should be, and so on until my house
is filled with objects that belong to Chase
and AmEx. I’ve been relentless and I’ve been
lucky, but that’s never been enough.
I’d sell my soul, but there aren’t any takers. 

Letting the Emptiness Become My Government

Within me, the sipped, iced bourbon enacts
the sense of a slow, April rain
blurring and nurturing a landscape.
Decades I’ve been pipe-dreaming of finding
a life as concise as a wartime telegram.
Ultimately, I’ve ended up compiling
an archive of miscommunication
and the faded receipts of secondary disgraces.
In third grade, a friend’s uncle stole the two dollars
from my pocket as I slept on their couch,
and later he must’ve hurried into the night
toward a flat in the nearby building
where a newly minted narcotic promised
to evict the misgivings from all riled souls.
I told no one of the theft, letting the emptiness
become my government, my friend’s
mother counting her food stamps while we walked
the late-morning blocks to a bustling grocery,
within which she eventually smacked
the hopeful face of my friend as he reached
again for too costly a thing.

Quarantine

In the worst hour of the worst season
    of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking—they were both walking—north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
     He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
    Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
     There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
      Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.