What I call true living
is found at the periphery of all modality
after a week of uninspiring tragedies
petty, yes
small unrecognizable anxieties
a tiny indulgence
like a return to a temporary home
that is true living, to say
“I am a great sufferer”
and drink the bottle
to curse the others
after a nagging narcissism
pretends to obliterate a reason
to go on breathing.
That is true living
to hold tight to the street
wayfaring, intoxication
denial
a great wide hole
alive alas
at the bottom of any common asphyxia
true living
is the edge
the final wound.
Beyond Language 