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Eh Don't Read This

Or do, we're all going to die anyway.

artists are important

(or do they just think they're important?)

because they mimic god

or whoever or whatever

exists up there

or around or throughout abovebelowbeyond

creating from nothing

setting off a domino effect of matter

mating molecules and electrons

and not even knowing what on earth that means

whisking choice ingredients together

just to say

i made this

i make and make and make

and wait for the eternal part of me to exist

like thornton wilder told us

i fear what comes after my bookended existence

they say that all we can do is leave behind something that matters

and as a matter of fact i believe that too

but i don’t know why

i have reasonless beliefs and groundless anxieties

of everlasting blackness and unconsciousness

but if we aren’t conscious we can’t feel the pain or fear

when somebody dies

i am not sad

i am jealous

not because i want to die, that's so 2007 of me

but because they finally know

wonder ends. speculation ends.

so what do we do with this possibly simulated and imagined life

in the meantime

i am not important

you are not important

and yet we sit on your bed created by beings

in a village in a city created by beings

smoking cigarettes that give us momentary relief

and bring us one day closer to the end of speculation (can't wait!)

talking about what comes next

as if we have a clue

maybe i’m repeating the same moment over and over

my memories are false

my hopes are futile

but for the rest of time i sit at my laptop

typing meaningless words

meaningless words

meaningless words

that phrase over and over

and everything that came before is a lie my consciousness tells me

to protect me from this groundhog day purgatory

i read a book as a child

about reincarnation

in which you chose your sex, location, life, and even your parents

obviously that leaves you with the question: why

why my mother who does not understand me

with a closed mind when mine aches to be so open it doesn’t exist

or my father to whom i am tragically similar

but is tortured and distracted

and does not believe in anything but knowledge and space

why did i choose to be the lesser sex

whose power is secret and not allowed to assert

who is not taken seriously

who is told she lies and overreacts

when the superior sex tries to take her breathe away

while he really just destroys her voice

why did i choose my privilege

why am i so selfish

why is my hair brown and eyes green

why do i love all genders and cannot figure out my own

why do the stars fascinate me

why do i worship david bowie like god

why do i make art

is david bowie god

is music jesus

is sex his blood drugs his body and rock and roll his spirit

i make art that i don’t care about

i am art because we are both unimportant

i hear “death” and i feel cold evil hands on my neck

so i write and sing to distract myself

not for an audience or critical acclaim

although that would be nice to occupy this terrifying existence

but to help me pretend i don’t exist the way i do

not valuable not profound not powerful not heartbreaking or enlightening

just preventing disaster

disaster being the spontaneous failure of my organs

from lack of comprehension and bravery

of course that wouldn’t matter either

other beings would exist

so luckily flippant and ignorant

lucky religious fucks

the versions of me that i don’t remember have flashes of fear

of the version i am now

premonitions of suffering and joy

masked by an excitement to be a grownup and live in new york city

but that is what i experience now

or so i think

i believe myself to be an artist in new york city who enjoys writing music and acting and singing and smoking weed and making vegan food and watching trippy cartoons and learning about astrology and making crafts and loves and hates the changing of the seasons and feels lonely and terrified as default emotions

but i don’t know if any of that is true

or if any of these words have legitimate meanings

if my language is my own

if my friends are extensions of my brain

or if dreams are real life and my real life is a dream

or if heaven is a pool of purple frogs singing gospel music

i don’t fucking know

so i write

i guess

i don’t really know what to do or how to finish this poem

or live another day

or exist now

am i doing it? i guess so

as far as i know

as far as i remember

and as far as i can see in the future

if i don’t die in my sleep or get hit by a cab in the morning

which is remarkably more probable than i know

the fact that i get out of bed is astonishing

and probably foolish

i say i don’t believe in anything but

something deep inside of me believes in nothingness

and lack of meaning

and yet i contradict my entire belief system

waking up

going to school

finding a job

living with rules and structure

paying taxes

pretending society exists or that our rulers have any real power

and that i don’t have the power to run away to an island in central america

and live in a tree

which is preferable?

can i do it all in this one indefinitely short lifetime

is that worth it

do i want a family and a white picket fence

i guess there’s nothing wrong with that but i don’t understand the concept in the first place

i guess i’ll just wait

until i can go back to my home planet

and wake up from this miserable and beautiful space mission through the consciousness of a nonexistent dress up and make believe “human"

someday i think i’m just gonna dissolve from this world and pop up in another

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