It's fine,
dance around me.
Your beanie in the summer
makes you look much more
ridiculous than she with he.
Although you're not a ghost,
nor clown,
you haunt
and make her laugh
effortlessly.
What is your secret?
What have you done?
The way you scurry
can only have one wondering
what you were doing in
2013,
when your life began,
and began with me,
but you've always been
barely without me.

The sloppy rain slips and slides down the fogged-up windows,
and this lets me know that I am not as small as I think I am.
In a city of three million plus, I feel like the soul of a nation,
even though I'm just a twenty-one year-old piece of plastic, drinking a hipster beer.

The waitress has frizzy hair and oily skin.
She's holding in late-night infomercials and missed ballet recitals, behind her words.
She looks at my luggage and asks where I came from or where I'm going,
and I tell her that the fun thing is that I have no idea where I'm going --
and that I still haven't decided where I've came from.

This city allows new-found anonymity, and I want that to be my cause.
With each passing glance, I know they don't see me, and, to me, that's the slumber-kissed throat-slit I've always dreamt of...

...the streets play music that I only hear -- and I know that's not fair, but I don't care.

And the homeless represent the bowels of the city.
And the businessmen are the ghost-filled engine.
And the middle class is the defense-mechanism I always wanted for Christmas.
And I am the empty delusion, desperately seeking a new pollution.

what a world it is
in which we reside.
we've come to the point
where we've lost all our
wonder.
as a species,
we act as though
there is nothing left to discover!
all we are
are satisfaction-seekers
and to have anything
unanswered
would
be
absurd!
this world we live in
is clogged up with "feelings"
and drowning in the pixels of
burning photographs doesn't seem
too steamy.
the concepts
which are thrived upon
are nothing more than perspective;
is that paper crumpled,
or is it a cultured crane?

They always say, "the past repeats,"
but ours can never again.
We were sworn together with knots,
and bled together with needles and thorns.
our window is closing
on the 70 mph highway
because too many bees flew into the car.
Your batteries are dead and my
charger is torn apart.
Your nicotine breath has staled,
and the fire's out of wood.
We can try to write a new script,
but sequels are never as good.

To move through genealogies
consider what it takes
The blood of those before
you filled with all of their mistakes
And what you've given into will uncover how you came
A sort of inquisition to eradicate your name
I called myself "the others" if I staggered or destroyed
Made everything inside of me
so purposely devoid
If not by my own doing
then by those whom I had known
To whom I was connected, thought, believed I could call home
Today's a separation
I have never known before
Or one that I'd forgotten
since I leveled with the floor
There's nothing on the bottom but I cannot seem to look
Much further than the dirt of earth, the silver that I took
The people are in pieces
and my head tries to compare
So often I can only find
the source of our despair
I go to bed in cycles
I can barely seem to keep
Awake so long I wait for dreams
to make me fall asleep
If anyone can see me or engage my busy head
I'll breathe before I speak again, let life be what is said

My mother held me,
and asked what was wrong with my world.
Her rubbery hands in my hair.
"I feel like a plastic narrative," I said,
"and there's nothing I can do about it."