if you’re reading this,
you’ve already felt it:
a tingle
an itch, an ache

you exist
in a kind of hollow agony orbit:
the cool knot pleasure, orgasm
of a burning log

if you’re reading this
you aren’t meant
for regular people

you spend your time
talking to yourself
talking to dead writers
eavesdropping on homeless people
spying on humming birds
recording everything
in overcrowded, dirty
empty cities
endlessly spinning
in an irregular circle