There is a man who keeps filthy strips of denim,

neon cereal-box watches,

and knife scars

in an infinite pattern striping both of his arms

His brow is thick

His eyes are pink and sore—caked with gold dust unstirred

His lips bleed

He is convinced utterly that he & we posses no past and that the past is entirely a conspiratorial construction of some sort of implanted mind-probe—though by whom is not specified—and that paying it any heed, any heed at all, will result in feelings of persistent malaise followed by dissociation from friends and family followed by defection from home and country leading to bitter-pill, sour-grape, schopenhauerish philosophy a deep root in irony, fear to cope with anything—at least directly—and pressure to flee which, subsequently, transmogrifies into the form of a not altogether unfamiliar feeling of childish behavior which manifests as acts of nihilism such as, but not limited to: binge drinking, overuse of narcotics, fist fights, overt interest in becoming a more average person, shady sexual encounters, etc ultimately piling onto the fragile crystalline insides and exploding in acts of metaphorical and emotional suicide

He says, when I say “was” I am speaking with the roots of a barrel dug, bloody, in the roof of my mouth