Flies swarm when the floodlights come on.
They **** and they fight, live and die.
In the space of an hour
turf becomes a bed of glass wings-
none are left
straining for the light.
It looks like a mass suicide.
Eggs hatch in the sweat of night.
Tachycardic at birth,
one brief exultation
enough to still the lung,
nullify the heart.
Yawn out of existence,
bullfrogs croak miserably
as bodies fall from the sky.
You ask me why I cannot sleep-
I saw a thousand deaths tonight.

Sleep quietly, now that
the gates of the day are
closed. Leave tomorrow's
problems for tomorrow.

The earth is peaceful.
Only the stars are abroad;
and they will not
cause you any trouble.

If not born into this confluence
From the cesspool of the waiting room,
Then elsewhere.
My consciousness schools me.
My ego insists.
I am, and was meant to be.
But logic countermands hope.
The fairies and angels are indexed
In the collected works of Aesop.
I am a network of synapses
Bleached into the soil.

Broken in pieces like thin branches for wood fire;
Worn out like a cloth fifty years old;
A trunk invaded by termites,
Rolling down a hill full of rocks;
A carpet walked over with ***** shoes,
Covering the floor of a once busy hallway,
Now abandoned and invaded by mold;
The paleness of a ruin one thousand years old,
Submerged in a thick sea of fog;
The rust on an old broken truck,
Mixed with dust to form an adhesive substance,
Eating the metal through to its core;

Combine this all together,
And imagine it's a feeling.
That's how I am feeling right now...

I met a boy a few years ago.
His eyes were always searching for something lost,
but he never knew what he was looking for.

We became acquaintances,
and after a while,
dare I say,
we became friends.

He never talked much about his past,
but I was able to read his absent eyes,
the way he never made eye contact for too long,
or the way he forced himself away from anything
he might get attached to.

His eyes are always just as anxious as mine.

He is sitting right next to me now,
just as lost in the professor’s lecture as I am,
and he’s writing too,
pencil feverously scribbling whatever thoughts
cloud his mind in this moment.

It’s been four years since I met this boy,
and I have never been able to figure out his angle.

There must be something he wants,
some reason he still talks to me.
No one has stayed by my side for this long.

Could it be possible that he actually cares about me?
No,          of          course          not,
That’s an idiotic thing to think.

But why else would he still be around me
when all I have been good for are
learning how to bake the perfect cupcakes together,
taking photos of the local wildlife,
and late night conversations about the stars?

The men I have known don’t care about those things.
The only thing that matters to them is
what’s between my legs,
and nothing else.

So could this one be different?

Could someone actually care about me?