Killed a man? Cool, please don't do that to me.

I.

Title:

You don't have to change the world
but nihilism isn't the best idea.

Abstract:

That maid sweeping in the corner
of a circular house who killed the owners

was her own riddle. Certainly cared.
Maybe had a family to feed.

Thesis:

Nihilism is either a tool for healing
or another privilege of the elites.

II.

Me and Hanna had an argument about
whether we should care about nihilism.

Isn't that ironic?

III.

I like to look to nihilism when I'm about
to kill myself.

To become a black hole
you must die a star so I think

I must first become a star
before I kill myself.

In the end I still care.

IV.

Dreams are something to live for
like the flavor of cooked meat
or the desire for so many dead
things: couches, stereos, old
methods of playing music. Robert
Frost hardcover for a head rest.
The hipster disposition isn't that
bad. At least they give a fuck
about something dust covered.
About the anthology of the dead
world. The dead bird. The drowning
seagull. The oiled door hinge. Opening
up to each other, Hanna says nihilism
is a good way to get nothing done.

V.

The world.

VI.

She's probably right. She's one of those
people who keeps crystals by her bedside

is someone who sweeps corners until
their owners die. She makes it away

with whatever she can take before police
notice what retroactively becomes theirs

is being stolen.

VII.

Detectives solve riddles written in the low tide
of a solemn morning after. In the miscarriage

of justice, a doctor with a book of laws instead
of latex gloves is instructed, you must not care in order

to do this job. So is the doctor who calls this, amputation.

VIII.

I wonder about waking up in a face
that isn't my face. Then I remember
I should be reading Coates' Case
for Reparations. Then I remember
talks on appropriation, not knowing
the door that closes in the faces
that are not my face. Gay fragrance
I can stuff down my throat if
the situation demands it. Silence
is the tourniquet the sick surgeon
spent his life tying. No accidents.
I wonder if tradition is formaldehyde
used to cover up the scent of dying.
I watch the news and know it's right.

IX.

I remember the first time I was called faggot
but can't really place it.

So many times hatred has shoved itself down
my throat. I remember

the first time I gave a blowjob but couldn't
make it cum. I remember

the morning after, a black sun in the news again.
I can turn it off. I remember

nihilism, a feeling disjointed. My fault. My problem
unless I ignore it. I remember

the world's problem, the one I am touching softly
like my first lover's body.

I can't bring it any closer.

X.

This is a crime scene.
An evidence bag.
Your name tag:
Civil Forfeiture.
This is how to hand yourself over
before you first ran your hands all over yourself.

XI.

This is birth.
An accident.
An axe in hand.
This is our dying forest.
It is hiding in the foliage
of too many white men’s glasses.

XII.

This is what privilege can afford:
Silence like a strong wind

in the empty mouths
of politicians. Nihilism:

We are all equal because we are all human.
We are all human because we were all born.
We were all born because there were humans.
We are not the only people that will die on the Earth.

XIII.

The common denominator.

When two people knock their heads into each other
and no one around is an ambulance, do they wake up lovers?

XIV.

I agree with Hanna who says
We are not the only people that will die on the Earth
because I believe she is right.

She says it is more nuanced
than that, like hitting someone with a baseball bat
accidentally or executing them

with a bat in front of their family.
She says we shouldn’t fear the world. Neither of us
go to Church. She says

We should pray for others
but not with our words. That is the lowest common
denominator. She says

We shouldn’t be using drone
strikes. They kill too many civilians. We should over
throw the elites. She says this.

XV.

We are as suburban as we have ever been.
We are a dot in the middle of a cul-de-sac.

We have solved the mystery.
We are detectives. Bullseye.

We are right on target. We care for a minute.
We are movers and we are judgment.

We think. That’s what we think.
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Hey r/OCpoetry. Please read the poem before reading this! I think this poem is somewhat self-explanatory so I won't try to explain it. The ending is not solid. I am looking for feedback on where to take it as well as what a good title could be. Right now the title is from a comment I found when googling, "Care about Nihilism." I thought about titling it, "Care about Nihilism," but also thought that was far too forward for the poem. I am wondering about how sex, violence, and indifference intersect and also if that was clear before this aside about it. Also wondering about the varying forms and if that's working for people.

Thanks a lot for feedback and reading! I know this is long!

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