each word subsists in the guts of others

nobody knows who one is and
the texture of not knowing this
doesn't feel human. one says
these things aloud.

the daily affiliations collude as
allergens around the sleeping head.
one wakes and within minutes is
again a friend / brother / son /
student / teacher / debtor / eater,
wishing authenticity would crawl
in teleprompter lines ascending
violet over the eyes.

the dishes spill a war of effort
from the sink, across the counter,
the coffeemaker's under siege.

the disconsolation of being mass-
produces the placebo of semantics
without quota or switch. "can't
you fucking shut it off" each word
subsists in the guts of others. one
bottles them all and becomes
a container of supplements--

"but why won't he want me"
"why won't he just want me"
"why won't he want just me"

[Justin Phillip Reed 'On Self-Reliance', from Indecency]