But no yeah actually Fuck Space.

a poem with a line borrowed from Mary Oliver. You'll know the one.

Content Note: Suicidal Ideation

I am trying to be a good duck and let the water roll 
right off my back 
But turns out that the water is actually silicone-based lube 
And the only way to get clean is to trudge through a car wash 
Naked during a tornado warning in the middle of nowhere Michigan. 

This is a bad poem. 
But it is specific. 
A fly buzz buzzes in my left ear 
And I want to die. 

No, I don’t want to die. 
I want to be dead. 	
Here one minute 
Poof the next. 

The only way to die is to die 
Or have sex. 
That’s not an original thought. 
I don’t think anyone has original thoughts. 

No, I think everyone is the same 
Kind of stupid. We’re all connected. 
So they say. So I’ve been told. 
So the story goes. 

Big things and small things and things 
Smaller still all held together tightly through 
Time and space and sometimes blood. 
And often rage. 

This is an angry poem. 	
Can you tell? No?
I must not be feeling my feelings 
Good enough then. 

I must not be expressing them in a way 
You can understand in this space 
at this time. But no yeah actually 
Fuck Space. Fuck Time. 

You do not have to be good, she said. 
I don’t care but I also don’t have to be legible. 
But also don’t I have to be legible? 
Don’t my poems at the very least?

And what does it mean to suck at legibility
When I call myself a poet? What does it mean 
To have our feet sunk in the muddy sand 
Your hand not in my hand?