foreword. what am I doing here?

every

s e c o n d

of every

d

a

y

,
every

p i e c e

splintered off,

every betrayal

shaving another fine layer

into dust

the structure

of me dwindles

while piles of soot

garbage

loss

pile

up

.

“i have loss”

I grapple with

the oxymoron of

a caregiverrapist

of strings attached

to basic needs, of

certain death

and

reaching for life

and in this

all

consuming

fight,

tunnel vision is

not a choice

in the tunnel.

day in

and day

out

planets move their positions

ages finish and start

and

I am still
fighting.

they tell me I am

the last man standing—

“you won”

“you can stop fighting now”

“you don’t have to fight ever again if you don’t want to”

if [you] don’t want to

[I] lost [want] in the garbage

in the tunnel

in the fight

in the Pile of Loss

and[       all       ]I know is

[all]I can do

(so?)
…
forward:
 
 
 
.
.
.

* * *

poetry. what I am doing here.

I fight myself

every day

death and life

two mirrors
|     opposed     |