A Cargo of Green Hearts
I mumble my way through
the video job interview
with people the size of postage
stamps staring across a tiny desk
at me. I respond, a little doll
from another planet.
something from Bukowski
comes to mind about the absurdity
of proving onself to an absurdly
machined world. the sane world, mind
you, is like leaves growing in a
womb or like the sun pulsing
in outer space. things like forests
and the melting of ice just happen
unjustified. a thing wants to grow
and it does. a thing wants to shine
and god says let there be light.
but yeah, the interview: fuck.
I’ve had better eviscerations.
whatever befalls me, I keep falling
back on the kiss which is supposed
to save me. it never does but that’s
not it’s purpose. I keep telling
all of you: there are no reasons for it.
it is the cause of everything else.
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