I don’t have an identity, only / a vast fatigue—
—Wayne Koestenbaum


i walk around in this hott bod sucking
the teeth out of my gums       in this hott bod not
yet toothless in this milky eve light where
a clean gum-pink light suddenly suffuses
the air       suddenly & only for a moment in a way
one could say reminds one of youth or beauty or even
love but instead       one is trying to take a picture because
one wants to feel not quite so alone under this wide purple
CGI-esque sunset       capture a scrap of something like
sunset that u can rise up into       to share w/—
i don’t send it—instead sort the self into piles
there is much i want to keep but
a nagging pile of shit i want to throw out but don’t
know if it’s recyclable or maybe like batteries
u need to be careful throwing out a part of the self that is
toxic       i worry about making sense but i know
the plot is the most boring part of any novel & still
i keep imitating the self       show up
at the gallery expecting a show but it’s like
some networking event?       & i need to strain
to hear the music over the clattering of canapés & small talk—
at least i’m dressed up nice       something strange & beautiful
so my aliveness is undeniable (i think)       orange eyes
fur collar       black dress like an ominous cloud &
running sneakers       —idk if this counts as “squeezing
cadence out of thrall”—       but i get the number of some guy
new in town       someone else to get bored of
& how long ago would i have given up on myself
if i wasn’t stuck with me? i envy the flat simplicity of the Other
want to be synonymous with my Personal Brand
i want to be efficient, not someone
who naps for too long and wakes up groggy,
who procrastinates about getting the oil changed,
who spends an hour scrolling—       let me be
the scroll—       smooth and inexhaustible—
but the self is that which cannot reach conclusion
no matter how many labels we put on or selfies we
take       i resent & love equally this hott bod mercilessly
changing       staggering toward some semblance
of unity       impending/actual loss of
youth-as-beauty causing thoughts of hmm how much is
botox?       & also of course “what
am i doing here”       the future so swollen
with possibility       i want to find the one glowing
future with the most texture       but
when u start pawing sorting sifting thru that
glistening embryonic soup u find nothing
graspable—       all too slick sticky ephemeral—       shifting
shape as soon as u think you’ve latched onto something—

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