for my haters



I used to think that if I kept moving I could outrun the pain.
Proud human. Foolish child.
Now I know the value of sitting still.
Let it come. Let it in. Let it own your being.
A violence of consumption, I turn my heart, my tender throat, toward

the teeth of it.
Stitch. Cramp. Toothache.
Ideation is the most common part my life–has been for three decades

a worn jacket I keep wearing, keep tearing, how it does nothing to

hold back wind, rain. But see how it dazzles with starlit seams.
Dream of trees, the perfect branch.
Of helium headmasks.
Of the hottest hot shot, the burning vein, the final slump.
Oh endless nod.
Small white horse, stampede me, grant annihilation.
In his office, the scientist and I discuss the anglerfish that came to the

surface, that this can equate to rare footage of a possible common

occurrence.

The deep sea hurts, he says.
Animals lean to carry it, push through it, live.
Sometimes, coming up is an easing: swim toward the light, little fish.
All existence hurts, the scientist adds.
His office, a molasses of comfort dripping thick with these harsh facts.
Endurance as grace.
And what is addiction to Class A substances if not a desire to step

closer to death, the end, body thrilling with burning of life.
There are days I crave for the ice, the shard, to drive to Marmion or

Koondoola or Balga, score to set fire to the night.
Sprint from the smoke.
A syringe turning my blood back into myself. As poison.
Ukanite. Black obsidian. Selenite.
I clutch crystals of another kind.
Out there in Perth Canyon, in a world full of corners, those beings

who call it home cannot outswim the agony we are inflicting.
They must endure. 
To do so is to reincarnate place, a legacy that changed shape when

drowned 10,000 years ago.
Glass sponge. Grey banded cod. Whaler shark. 
They must endure. They must all endure.
And so must I.
Sit, human. Stay, child.
Embrace it.
Write another poem.