The chemtrails in the back of the sky
Are short, like slits, or more like cuts,
Like the little daft scars on my student's skin
Her mother must not know about.
I feel like I have to address it,
The panic for a child sitting fatherly and loud
I will not, because I cannot, it is not my scope.
Sighing, this is what I think about.
Commuting not computing,
Filing through the turnstiles, sticky,
I'm a slithering commuter,
Not a competent tutor,
Growing tired and not cuter,
I am commuting to you.
As long as Rotterdam is standing,
I’ll be the body on the train,
Sprinting on by grazing cows.
A little longer and I'll feel my heart break again,
When I tell you about her.
As long as Rotterdam still stands
And my student jokes about self-harm,
My commuting heartbeat pounds on,
In tune with trains stampeding through the farms,
Pounding permanently, panging on the parchment of time,
As the airports below sea level send their planes to start their climb.
​​

It's always better in your head.
Thoughts like zombies feel through slits in walls of mind for new creative avenues.
The sun is white like tea paraphernalia, perhaps a blue and gold rimmed saucer,
and perhaps I am the cup.
A diplomat rises from his chair, throws an orange into the crowd, like he doesn’t know that the woman in row 14 seat B has an allergy to citrus.
He stays silent until the tea has gone cold and the meeting's out of session.
The birds rearrange their nests and the trees are low and thoughtful
with slits in trunks like navels from which a hand reaches through and grabs, grabs, grabs...

Exactly which one of the twenty-something stories humanity picked up on are we telling today
The planes intersect in the sky making exes marking loners on the beach tanning quietly from space
They lie in dents of people's footsteps as graceless dogs whip up the sand
Traceless prophets loners virtuous they hold all answers in their hands
Hermit lanterns cantered boats they beckon us they beckon please
In the spaces between parasols of the ones parading peace

I am broadcasting (to thee) a song full of swoon
Hopefully it will be over soon
Fifty five and flirty white as lippizaner horses
At the beach club hungry boredom placed on chairs with other torsos
Parents chasing down their kids
Throwing their foreboding fits
Khaki colored fathers carrying their salty and wet children
Children fathered covered by those fuzzy ponchos made especially for toddlers
Katamarans floating gentle squares on slimy water
I’m not made for moderation
Easing into fleeting moments
Twisted arms like highway horses
White as clouds on monday mornings
In the omelettes of the skies
Splitting yolks on shells disgusted
As my nervous system cries