Down my street
a ****** suicide
and somehow it feels
like things
change.

The septuagenarian offed his wife,
then bit the bullet
and took the trip to join
her,
offering no
explanation.

Some will say in hushed voices over
stale pastries and plastic coffee cups
"well, he must have had his reasons...";
disease or no desire
or undercooked meals or
overcooked emotions
or that one night
in 1972:
masters of speculation,
conveniently circumventing the fact
that no reasons are ever
required
until you are dragged
into it.

These things happen,
have happened,
will keep happening,
regardless,
only now they are here
and so are you,
staring uncomfortable at known
but forgotten
realities,
like crossing your ex
on the way to the supermarket.

There is, quite simply,
too much -
we have to reduce to understand,
so we understand but a reduction,
puzzling the obvious
(the universe is nothing
but an infinite
Rube Goldberg machine
with no purpose at all)
when the cogs are revealed
closer to us
than anticipated.

There should be no space
for surprise:
of course we all would wind
up doing
it
to each other
and to
ourselves,
given enough time
all probabilities are eventually
drawn to
one.

The only unexpected is
it being unexpected,
just like and end you didn't see
coming.

As I lie,
smoked and high,
the world outside
still drives me by

and I am content,
for the moment,
to let it pass
unchallenged,
inconsistent
vegetative state.

It is only
temporary:
that's all we can as for
and get.

And the days were full enough
and the nights were full enough
and life did not seem to move
and was like death in that regard.

Before the spikes,
flatlining snapshots
of the unattainable.

I search for the word
dangling
in the
s p a r s e
outskirts
of thought.

It has been feeling progressively harder
to get to it,
which is only
natural:
the city has been growing
for years
with little to none
municipal planning.

One day, one presumes,
it will be utterly inaccessible:
even light is not
instantaneous.

That is called
extrapolation
and after
the last
poem.

I admire my sinking
mind
from afar
a resigned
castaway.

A blonde girl
(surely a tourist)
sits parallel
to me,
between us the glass
pain
of the coffee shop
and an entire
life.

Only the mast still breaks
the horizon
above
the waves and the

stillness.

Whenever I go
to take a ****,
I pull the plastic
toilet seat
up.

It is quite old and quite
bendy, so
sometimes it works,
gloriously standing up
there,
first try:
a true master of the
art.
Sometimes it falls back
down,
no matter how much I fiddle
with it,
and boy,
do I
fiddle.

The same when I look
in her eyes.

In my humble,
layman,
opinion,
the only acceptable reason it should be
difficult
to see
to the bottom
of this,
is the depth of the
lake,
never the thickness
of the waters.