The sky would darken
to a terrible color.

It would tear
and bare orange
wounds as hail

like stars on fire fell
from the gaping sky

Something comfy but
ill fit, come get through this stretch
of time for a while

Tired of sleeping,
eyes still closed,

mind oddly clear
—boredom does that,
searches so blindly and
fervently for a thought or

idea that it bursts into
a bright dark nothing,

sweeping wave over the
wide endless expanse of
ethereal wiring

The soul sings
of sweet succulent

freedom: not needing
much else but a sip of sun

and a
nudge of
water

here
and
there

What jealous
freshness

wants is
the tickle

of microbes
from meatstink

My father wanted
a son and got daughters

Much like how I
wanted a lover and
got you instead

Ok, I have
nothing

to write but
I'd like to
write, but

it's gotten
an unfamiliar
strange smell on
it now from sitting

out on the
counter too long