the limits of nostalgia
1: fabricated remnants
childhood remains. a noun we cannot touch. there are no limits to this catchment zone. you said zone to refer to many things; primarily thematic delineations. what remains are shards of bone. dead boy mix tapes. scraps of cloth hugged into animal shapes. somewhere a bridge might house the things we left behind. then again, semiotics may no longer prove useful; light may no longer burn within. earlier we performed repairs using needle and thread, torn cloth, grandfather’s used underwear. however, this was not the correct material to fix every tear, and you had a bus to catch. i tried to remind you when it wasn’t our stop. all my emails were sent too late to be of use. wifi is unreliable where you’re going. they used the same stuffing to fill your shirt inside grandfather’s sweater; shaking means the material is working. stuff it down into the holes so that no cloth is wasted. the first year onboard i made many errors, but after each mistake you helped me clean my tears off the console. we’re all suffering electrical defects of a kind. if only i’d kept those drawings, if only i’d mailed you that belt. i continue to listen to the music you sent, but even backwards there are no hidden messages. every sickness is more severe than the last. i don’t know what happened to those plastic glasses you used to wear. i am using the word ‘matter’ to refer to the physicality of the object. shhh—the creatures are listening.
concentric circles lead only to concentric circles. attempting to step outside the void is unadvisable; please help me discern the difference between pretentious, earnest, ironic and twee. tonally, i mean. the metal object is a vessel for liquid. the plastic object is a vessel for sine waves. the wood object is a vessel for a metal object, which is in turn a vessel for bone. how do you like my subjectivity now? what’s said is said; what’s staid is staid. please stop correcting my usage of the semi-colon; i know it’s incorrect and i don’t give a fuck. the metal object is a vessel for liquid. the plastic object is a vessel for sine waves. the wood object is a vessel for a metal object, which is in turn a vessel for bone. all three of these objects contain my brother. now i am writing a narrative. you can actually watch the adipose tissue expanding with every passing day. it’s true that you can write a poem to be embedded in bacteria; what’s uncertain is what the bacteria is also writing to be embedded in you. please don’t correct my usage of pronouns; i know it’s problematic and i don’t give a fuck. conceptualism, post-modernity and the meta-narrative have superceded the concerns of every prior era. therefore it is no longer necessary to write a poem expressing grief or pain—in fact, to do so would be to align oneself with the school of reductive quietude. hush—no more talk of rupture. the metal object is a vessel for liquid. the plastic object is a vessel for sine waves. the wood object is a vessel for a metal object, which is in turn a vessel for bone. the human body is a vessel for something that christian bök has yet to write. circumference confidential:
3: velcro congruity
integer time. hospital tape. perestroika. sestina. sassafras. koulbassa. vision pants. parting shot. tuna butt. rad action. panfried. giant squash. plantar fasciitis. get it in writing. put it on your thing. plenitude. gingivitis. poop sauce. plenty of fish. muffin top. penis wagon. vaginal understudy. pooty tang. perspicacity. capital of France. itching to go. grant season. Ipsos Reid. ants in your pants. guess what I’m holding. Tri-Beca. Tri-Deca. planet cheesewhiz. goober time. hot sauce. California raisin weiner. pupusa. mussel engine. razor board. immanent sausage. hold my bolus. adjustment disorder. disassociative disorder. temporomandibular joint disorder. irritable bowel syndrome.
shhh—this is the best part.
contraband critters. gold in the sunlight. singe only the edges.
not every rehabilitation goes easily. the crows are talking to me. google tells me everything i need to know about your death. that hawk is on the fence again. all that remains are locks of your hair, and locks of mine. because we were taught never to write a poinsettia about dead granges. because my grimace is banal. because you and i never walked around eiderdown-fishing. because it’s been 4 moods and shock remedy in the bogey. because no one knows where we go. because you died on a Tuesday. because it’s Tuesday again. no, it’s Wednesday. because i failed you. because souffle found me when i was young. because you were my music and now you are missing from me. because i don’t wanna get over you. because no one knows where we go. when we’re dead. or when we’re dreaming.