i wish i could reach into it again
everyone looks like they’re from hey arnold
and i feel like the catdog
how do people make things seem so sad
its easy to make someone act foolishly when they are sad
why do they not want me to know whats going on
i barely do without them
i barely know what the weather is
once again a cameo from the northern sea
i couldn’t come to visit it the wind was so strong that i couldn’t see
so i left it to watch itself
punishing these lands for their improbably annoying weather
i feel safe in memory
as the northern herring gulls, for some reason quiet and pensive,
glide past my floor  
in the brothel of my mind

I am looking at his laptop
There, a rotated sphere is stabbed through the middle
An axis like any other but it is his work and he takes a drink
Some girl in thin boots passes by as she looks for a seat
She clutches her laptop
The laptops are everywhere like a silent dignified force I watch
My screen
It is dark and in between mysterious grease drops and dust particles I see my face
Not clearly
Just enough to get the gist of what we are dealing with today
Not Helen more like
Penelope on Ithaca
Sometimes I open the map and study outlines of islands in the default format
My laptop skills are far removed from making programmed ridgeback Bolts spin I see
The reflection of somebody who studies something so superficial
I build things too I hope
But these things
Like odysseys are ROIs in due time

I look over to him again
His screen is now a chat
And a red heart is sent by the other person
I look back and turn my computer back on
Though lighter I still
See myself I touch
The screen gently
The dent makes a blueish pulse I press
A little harder into the glowing screen
More colors of the rainbow I see
Green in some places I roll
My thumb into the matter
The screen is buckling the whole library tucks I press
Harder
The dent is the skin of a rainbow
And my thumb goes on top of the matrix
I press even more
Until it cracks and
I can’t see my face anymore

They’re advertising tick vaccines again on big vinyl tarp
When you touch it it’s warm
It bounces a little in gentle wavelike lateral movement
A few days later, even if nothing happened
They suspend the giant insect down
By multiple strings, slowly
Bad mooded, hooded, brooding interns in chunky handyman shoes roll up the decommissioned plane
They leave it by their truck and sneak off to get a snack
While I figure out what would happen if I squeezed into the scroll
They wouldn’t notice a body in the roll
I do it and wiggle my way up to the tick
It has a big red belly
I observe it’s expandable shell
It embraces me with its eight jointed arms and I fall asleep until I find
They are bringing the tarp to a sunlit field
At the industry district
Where the bus stops aren’t named after streets but after factory parts
„Decommission Plant“
We melt waiting for our turn in the furnace.

Two wide open arms
phrygian, pumping with generous excitement
preparing food or pouring water
I am a stray licking at puddles
blowing past the frigid opening hours of
anabolic windows
drafting out the nutty smoke of tobacco
bleeding out into the air
I say that I like, enjoy being cold
I prefer it
and San Fransisco is far,
but I’d love to go
me and my wet, refrigerated soul.

The protagonist is Hope,
Mesmerizing,
Could it ever give up?
Takes the scarf and then the keys,
The two different socks are still an issue,
But Hope promises to stop.

Hope goes out the door,
Shuts it loudly,
Wakes me up,
I rise without it.

It goes to work with all the folk,
It checks in proper,
In and out,
Like the wheels of intercities,
Reading seams of rails aloud.

They're conveniently placed,
Right below my bedroom window front.
The train that Hope has boarded trails on
With scraping screeches
Through said bedroom like a joke.

Like the Triplets of Belleville,
I am the dog,
I bark right at it,
Hit the beat at which the wheels
Shift through the rails
As they charge into a whistle,
And also hope’s inside there,
Nestled,
Sitting proudly by the window
Headed into the city.
You can’t hear the sounds from inside of the rail jet
they are muffled,
almost pleasant.

Hope goes unhidden,
Always present,
Steady, stuck,
Like scorpions in resin.
So Hope travels on,
Into the city,
Travels lightly,
No possessions,
As it works
And drinks its coffee,
Jittered slightly,
Stamps letters into word processors,
Gets a sandwich at the Prêt.

The work is good,
All good
And well
And good
And well
And good again!
It’s all so good,
Why should it not be?
The answer's predetermined, set.

Hope comes home with something edible
Wrapped in cellophane
And surely meant to **** me
As I douse it in some Heinz
Hope usually comes home at different,
untraceable, untrackable times.

When it finally comes back,
When the day draws to a close,
When Hope is folding its attire,
Its business casual clothes,
I burst alight with laughter,
Panicked,
I ask again if all’s ok.
Hope turns and says, "Don’t worry 'bout it."
I scream,
Jump up,
Lunge at it,
Punch the space right where it stood,
And hear another train horn fizzle as it whistles through my room.