napoleon dynamite is an explosion of the mouth

it appears to me that we’ve done this before:

the walking rivers, the stone-stacking, the bone finding.

I must say I’m in love with your weather,

you tiny planet, my lose, my hose,

when I am raining, when I am walking

around at night with a child in my arms

I call it insomnia with a crack of dawn

in my eye. the incessant

hope of cracks—you know.

down by my hoarse voice, I’ve felt trouble.

when I am drowning, which happens often,

I tend to wet the bed with several cups of water.

I wet my grave too, and then I let go of the surface

like I let go of myself—like I

wrap my wrists in cellophane and crash

on the couch for my family to see.

they know I’m brown, obtuse and

hungry: in other words, I’m an addict

without nihilism. yes. I kill myself

slowly and without a drop of philosophy.