in every band of trees. To
my blood cells, to well-ordered systems,
to my head absolutely thick
with disease. Ode to the dress I slept in
and wore the next day, to the cilantro
I planted in all the wrong weather.
Ode to the fucking cosmos. Ode to my face
against your face, to poems that want to
like us but don’t. Ode to being
the bloodless one, the neurotic one,
the one ignoring your spiritual journey.
To your clothes in my basement
covered in ink. To I wore this when
we first met., to .I want to hurt you like this
and then like this. Ode to quitting my job
to stay excited, to exposing myself
to my neighbors, to embedding so many
rocks in my chest. Ode to Tulsa.
Ode to the 900-foot Jesus, to keeping
my hands in my pockets most of the time.
To my brothers and sisters, to all my
enemies, to imagining every way
to die in every possible scenario.
Ode to crying when I can’t find my shoes,
to feeling like God will punish me for
sins I don’t believe in. Ode to taking
pictures in front of strangers’ houses.
Ode to my jacket covered in yellow.
Ode to how I wish you were built
out of wood panels. Ode to staring
out the window in the worst
of the house. Ode to your age,
to my age, to how I react improperly
when reenacting your fate. Ode to
so few phenomenons. Ode to
absolving myself of everything.
To singing what I’m doing, to arguing
what counts as “artifact” and “alive.”
Ode to my wandering pacemaker.
Ode to my big fat heart. Ode to
pretending I’ve never been where
I used to live. Ode to hoping you’re
a goner. Ode to grieving nothing
each time a villain is born."