On Living Anymore

part I: suicide 


is suicide the staking out of autonomy or is it murder by slow poisoning
(patriarchy, capitalism, prison, etc take your pick)? 

is suicide the ever-resistant final fuck you to that slow poisoning? 

is suicide the best star, the prettiest girl, the tightest beat we ever danced to? 

can i literally kill the cop in my head, burn away civilization’s noose? 

if one takes down one’s enemies with them to hell, does one have to also
drag those bodies down a black river like a horse on fire? 

i went to court to deny my suicide, my perpetuation of suicide, i refused to
answer their questions which they took to be a sign of suicide 


part II: housing 


they couldn’t find a place to lay their head 

there were more than 80,000 empty beds in the city 

there were people forcefully removed from their apartments so they could be renovated 

families died from carbon monoxide poisoning; they were burning their
belongings in the middle of the room; they were found huddled together 

red circles around the Quartier Karl Marx 

they killed the landlord then they lit the house on fire and swam into the middle of the heat
prospectors gathered around the charred foundation 

we’re busy capturing the sun, they said, opportunities aren’t forever 

you sleep, you die, they said, that’s the business 


part III: debt 


the story of my generation was the story of debt, 

i bought 1,000,000 dogs, 

but the investment didn’t pay off 

everyone else had 1,000,000 dogs 

some paid more, some paid less 

many dogs died in the process, as prices were haggled, raised, and forged into debt 

in private i wept over my 1,000,000 dogs but the dogs paid no attention 

finally in public we built an army of dogs— 

the re-wilding of our debts 


part IV: belonging 


i am exactly where i need to be, lost and on my last 50,000 won, my last 400 dollars 

i have hurried past the city of my suicide into something brighter and more gone 

the ruins of this architecture are dazzling 

we’re running in the grass; it’s ruthless 

our ways of being, numbered and cast away t

he grass cuts, like all intimacies 

we are intimate and fighting and that’s all i need to know 

all the knots in all the grasses and then we throw the net up 

i believe in no world, 

but i want to trace every bit of it with fine lines of no hope 

and that is the only love