Saturday, March 9, 2013

Eileen Myles by Eileen Myles


I wake and pee into the vase of the night.
I stare at the yellow flowers.
I make myself look at them.
Maybe if I knew their names
I could find them beautiful
Like a lot of people say they do.
I find out the names of the flowers.
I hydrate myself with dull water.
I still don't care about the flowers;
I did not make the flowers.
Am I thinking of this because of Kant?
The thought just now occurred to me.
Probably not, I'm still looking for
A reason for my apathy,
As if in finding it, I could remove
It like a thorn
And experience delight in everyday things.
It's just stuff though, junk.
Nature makes trash.
I had no hand in it,
And even if I did
Cultivation is dull.
Nature makes Kool-Aid;
People in sandals drink it.
Mostly I agree with them,
Life's all there is and no beyond, probably.
Still, why do they wanna keep it?
They make health with their hands
Cultivating themselves into pots.
Why do they wanna keep themselves?
I hate that I have to ask,
Not because there's no need to ask,
Just that there's no need.


Anyways, I think about limits, mostly my own,
And when I try to focus and whittle myself
Down to something hardup and true,
I'm left a broken mirror
Propped vertically against a doorstoop, guarding.
That's really very metaphorical
And really very beyond my means.
I shouldn't and can't say it like that,
Even if I just did.

People think about limits, and sometimes I buy
Into a generational hedonism
And convince myself I should just
Go for it, just put on some Nike's,
Run for it, jump for it, just do it,
But for the last 20 minutes
I've had to shit and I want to
Write all this down so I wait to
Shit for the right time.
So many goals.
Hedonism collapses, at least as an argument,
Which needs a few, well-handled points.

Anyways, what does she want from me?
Am I that thoughtless?
I smell bad
But I know I could try harder
And yet I want one nice fucking day
One fucking day to feel free
And unclouded from feeling like I fucked up.
I want a few hours, just a goddamn
Few hours in which to feel like
I've done nothing terrible
And, of course, nothing great.
It would all be uncalled for,
In a nice, cozily surprising way.

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