i take off my hearing aid
so i can hear
the maybe poem
that sputters on the inside
of a world
that’s coughing up its heart
in slow motion

i’ve been watching
six feet under ten years later
i’ve been taking it from behind
and i’m not ready
to talk about
how everything is over
but there are only
three episodes left
and the faces are starting
to evaporate and what
am i going to do
but fill the vanishing
with anger

even when nate
slips into a coma
even when he wakes up
long enough to break
brenda’s heart and promptly
die i just can’t
stand him all he wants
is peace
and quiet a woman
to keep
her mouth shut
until the voice of god
or some other manchild
makes of her his marionette

even in his death
all he wants is one last toke
a bro to share the moment with
a bro he makes
in his own image
and not his actual brother
who takes it from behind
while his mother
takes aim
at every man
she’s ever tried to love

his coma’s ringing off the hook
but she’s not home
she’s busy
hacking her way out
of all that peace and quiet
that grows
in the absence
of voices like her own
and how he blames her
for feeling
more than she ought to
more than he’d like to
and like so many sons
who fear their own
i’m guilty of the same

when i left home
i became an apprentice
in the factory of faces
all these years i’ve been so scared
of getting it wrong
and losing everything
but i’ve been
luckier than most
i make a more than decent living
but when our faces
start to fall apart
what are we going to do

i never wanted
to make anyone
in my own image
least of all my brother
who won’t even talk to me
at least i know he’s out there
his cursor
swimming laps across the screen
until the screen gets old
or sold for parts
like everything that makes us

and maybe someday
he will or won’t
get sober and our particles
will touch without us even knowing
like everything
that makes us

like the osario general
the common grave in the chacarita cemetery
the kind of place
i’d maybe like to be buried
after the very last episode
so when they come
to visit me
they’ll also have to visit you
and you and you and you
and tie our names
around the tree
a few wilting flowers
tucked between
the twine and peeling
bark my bones
dissolving next to yours
and yours and yours

my syllables
keep crashing into
our impermanence
the only thing
we can call our own
i’m not saying
this is poetry i’m just saying
i want to stop
being so resentful so
afraid of you
and all of us
and all there is to feel
before i stop being entirely
i just want to do my best
to love you
before we fall back
through the sieve