M.

Greendark vapor

Broken over
The body-of-Christ moon
In the sky above the soon-to-be old apartment .

I sit like dewless mornings amidst the
Eves
And the evening’s main event,

Disbelieving everything.


Thumb runway of the
Pit .
In your
Sunglasses
Smudge .a

Way of waking .up

In sharp
Contrast .
Photojournalist

More ******* adds than the weather ch. app

Spooky on your tongue
Like
Liking
Controversial historical figures

Vacation promise land
And a sunbaked balcony to **** on


The eggshell sneaker laces
Bleaching out in the open
Filth pant posture


Summercamp slab of concrete
Camo pattern t shirt

**** that you got to get
Done

Few understand the technique :
The way (that) I push the walk signal
so that the whole of everything disintegrates.with the touch of *******

On the smooth metal
The micro abrasions pressed into the

skin swirls

The indifference and calm
The static reliance on wires that go unseen until they are worthless

The firey sun dripping like egg yolk over the city





[It makes up for the ink stains on train seats
It makes up for the neighborhoods we don’t go to anymore
It makes up for the way I never learn.]




The train had come when I was nascent to the platform
New comer to the expectant (waiting) mob
Threw down my membership card and boarded, back turned towards the moon

Pieces of sparrow against the tourist trap window
The laminated pages of trifold maps yellow asymmetrically in the sun
There as the light dances

The plastic palm
Not growing
Leaves


Irresolute

The

Ac bolted above the front door making a lot of racket but doing **** all otherwise

I was one who thought he’d never let rust form on his nice pocket knife
But here I am- 30 lbs gained in a year and only use my leatherman for opening cans of chicken and tuna for the dog

Rust on blades for leaving in puddles by the kitchen sink

Forgetting to call friends

Being me-less and without laying hands on any thing real, these days


I used to spend all this time thinking about the things I would get, and take care of, and keep for the rest of my life.

Real permanent things.

Now I wonder

Long dying tubes of fluorescent light
Read like far away stars against the blackened concrete roof .

If I try, I can put my self outside - swimming in it
As we make blurred afterimages through other peoples’ windows

Jostling in our carpeted seats, inside the traffic’s galactic hum

We are
Left-overs
From the
big dig

To traveling pilgrims

And the exit

Grass strains are a treasure
traded for dullness
For a long time

Shaking like dry spiders with the cellar door opened
Waking up without .


With the
Personality of a carpeted bathroom