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## i talk to you as if you're really there

|| Negative Spirit/Larry, post Vacay Patrol. Title from litany in which certain things are crossed out by Richard Siiken.

The being inside of you: the walls of the rotting rotting rotten confessional, mediating your movement / between infatuation and the deep-sea-depths of hatred; when you go down far enough into the light / eventually there stops being any light at all. You know this, you do. You bury yourself into the cold earth and the cold earth siphons out the venom of ache. You bury yourself in the crater of your jet crash.

Look at you, let’s just say it already: you pitiful sad thing. You, the Icarus who escapes sunbright decimation and doesn’t learn his lesson. You, the wax-winged utter essence of hope; you, the reborn; you, you and the holy fall. You are steered towards the nebula by the rust inside of you and you still haven’t

learned

your lesson.

What happens when the intensity of your love bleeds into your logic like colors mixing on a flesh palette, it asks—-”it” can only refer to you in this situation, because the core of you has been cut out, scalpel vertical on torso, but that doesn’t matter now. What happens is this: the skies crash together like bodies crashing together like jets crashing into cold earth and you can’t stop yourself from the possession, the overthrow of a desire you cannot name / quite yet. The kingdom of you that it had built, fallen and boiled. Golden royalty. Fossils of a time so recent yet fixed eternally to the past, sewed on with your best friend’s thread with your best friend’s needle. You wanted to follow this being to paradise but you followed it to hell, which conveniently is frequently called Earth. You wanted this to be forever. You wanted; this is the problem, the downfall & the plague & the burning. Earth like wanting, wanting spinning through space until the universe crumbles, you spinning through space until the universe crumbles, the universe torturing you and we’ll stop there, we don’t know where the story ends yet. Your story may never end, but the story of symbiosis has crumbled away, taking you down with it, destruction of completion like a city in ruins, your soul a city of ruins, your soul a city populated entirely

by things you wish you were brave enough to communicate, things that it knew but decided to shed anyways, your soul the bones of a house haunted by the things / you will never feel again.

Time for a riddle: what exists in the future and the past but never in the present? The answer, of course: Lawrence Trainor.