13 Days

Day 1

What feeling is in the animal of my strangeness?
What nuance of outrage, struggle or insistence must
I maintain to hold so firmly to my imitations?

As a child, I stood on an oath, tall like a crucifixion
or a giant digressing. I said I can’t be gotten. I am
powerful – like a genie.

This is the poverty of disabled genius, this is the
tuberculosis of thinking – that without luck, no
great thing is worth imagining.

So I chewed Christ-thorns and rubbed my body with
the shrapnel of my fathers addictions and hung my
ear on the next word of his victim explanations.

Idea by idea, I committed to being crazy – ranting
and journaling, making every effort to describe in
detail why I am not amazing.

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