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

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.
​​

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.

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

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...