Yorke's Chorus

Reilly Donahue photographed by Taylor Steinmeyer.

She asked if I could do it all again?

I responded no.

I don't like

to live, and

to live again

is to be…

She asked what if I tried another vessel?

I told her it's doubtful.

Because every existence is a

mouthful, and my jaws hurt from

having to clench too hard

to hold onto some degree

of who I am becoming.

She asked what if the timing was altered?

The era was never the error.

The human experience was faulty. Full

of impossibility. Of love. Of hate.

Of the three occuring in the

same life sentence, and then I'm

expected to explain how I feel-

I don't know what a feeling is.

But I've seen a dead sparrow

on the ground, wings broken from

ambition, and have been struck by

sensations similar to the silence frothing

from the bloody beak; I've always

thought my chest an empty nest,

for all the best intentions have

already flown the coop. And lately

I've been sleeping on these eggshells,

unable to avoid the crack of

reality as lambs flock to a

slaughter. No sir, I do not

love your daughter-I don't even

love myself. Because I was never

a thing meant to love, only

something to know. I am an

experience, not an explanation nor escapade.

She asked, if I could do it all over again,

what would I change?

I told her nothing.

because the results are

always the same. It's

always been the same

like when someone asks

"how are you?" and

you say "good" and

they reply with the

same statement, but both

have nothing but evil

to report. We stopped

caring about honesty, We

stopping thinking about an

answer, rather replying with

automated affirmations set up

six months in advance.

We stopped being human.

She asked, if I could do it all again,

what would I question?

I...

don't want

any answers to

life, nor my life

to respond to the existential

question: how does one live. I

don't want a conclusion, or

resolution; only a prison

cell with one

window facing

skyward

and shackles

so heavy that

to gaze at heaven

requires every muscle to move

in sync, and yet I stare.

Eyes bulging from sockets like

the snapped neck sparrow's

pupils wishing for

another inquiry

rather

than eternity.

But neither are

found in this state

of being, so I've become

accustomed to the state of affairs,

and choose to revolt against

any previous statements on

how to be.

See I

prefer

to be

a chant resounding

from the throats of

the crowd at the execution

block, I prefer to be coiled

rope connecting the guillotine, or

the whetstone activated moments

prior to the

beheading. I

don't

want to

be an end,

only the last thought

of some stranger's brief existence

before entering the nebula of nothing.

She asked, if I could stay...

I told her yes, and then no.

I don't know what I want,

but

I know it's not this again.

-written by Johnny Lee Chapman III