You’re Gonna Break My Heart
Incendiary grenades on Christmas Day. A man walks into my garden and I shoot him dead. This is my property and I hate myself. Too much a coward, I crawl into a cave and paint it with brain matter. Time kicks on, a new Xbox is released. The cave painting blood soup turns into a panther who screams at the empty plains until an officer shoots it dead.
Prior to my death at the hands of the hotel police, I gathered my papers and cleaned my room. I am in love with the not-my-shadow in the mirror. Tide waited for me one morning, I spurned it. Tribulations is a word from childhood signifying something uncouth and unknown. What voice cries out? Where is this wilderness? I read a pop-up book that prophesies my metamorphosis into nothing that is.
Ghost inhabits a bigfoot skull; am I supposed to make something out of nothing? I watch the west grow cold; am I supposed to comb my hair out of my face? Newspaper makes good insulation, words against skin like pigs in blankets. Bigfoot skull watching me sleep a foot above the street.
No books but in madness, no madness but in today’s news. An assemblage of severed arms and legs. Sperm shot straight into the air. Let me tell you a secret. No. The imperceptible movement of magma under deceived homes and businesses. I will buy a thousand-dollar shirt, a watch with more diamonds than hours, a bricolage of suicide notes.
Caleb Jordan is an autistic poet from Oklahoma.