I want an antithing

like a cigarette, want to mouth

it while I verb.

But I’m not doing

anything, so I start to think

about the resolution of the eye, wonder

if another instrument could glimpse

the slits of space between grains

of one thing and the next. Inhale

that one for your reward. But antithings are flighty

if they’re anything at all, and now I’m left

with nothing — I’m not doing

anything again — so I start to think

about how time isn’t. Isn’t that a kick

in the head? But now I have to think

time is a thing that animals do,

and fuck, I want to antido

it all, I want an antithing

that will last. My brain’s

funny, my senses are bent

into modern art, that’s all I get for trying

too hard. What a giggle,

the men who think the universe plays

bumper cars and doesn’t bleed

from thought to thing,

from mystery to knowledge. Fuck,

all I antido is nothing.


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