Series I-IV: Dayful

I.

I am sitting next to a man on the grass who is asleep with his guitar.  One of his eyes is half-open, his mouth is fully so.  I want him to wake up and look at me.  I want him to ask me if I am an angel.  I would say,

-Yes.  I am the angel of death.  I have come to take you somewhere you have never been.

Inside me are my vices, only sometimes outwardly manifested.  (I should have written down your number because I am so alone.)

Instead I will watch.  The clover and the statue of an animal suggest: Easter.  I want to destroy the wrathful.  I want to fuck the lustful.  Look at you, hand-knit papers.  This feels like consuming.  Consumption.

I am the angel of death, yes, consuming.

II.

See the change that I have become.  The embodiment of the whole.  Who would have thought that I am capable of anything else.  

"You are what you see."

Disintegration, trash, openings.  I am full of tunnels.  Forward and outward, they move.  As if: tentacles.  Feel this way now.  You are full of these things.  Everyone is inwardly filthy.

III.

THINGS I WILL NOT BE DOING IN THE NEAR FUTURE

(an abridged list)

1. moving to California

2. asking the tough questions

3. going out of my way to speak to those that I love

4. speaking out loud, at all

5. buying another umbrella

6. changing my mind

IV.

You, my Leviathan, to you

I submit wholly, intentionally;

we must become absolutely

modern, or perhaps absolutely soft

in order to wander the way

I have, but I am not

the imperial collective, I am

only singular, the drift,

the end of a pilgrimage.  To you

I submit, to be tossed in the fury

of your speckled idea of order.