It's
dangerous to be on anything that isn't a precipice.
**** your flat-footed surety!
Sometimes the
solidarity
you stand on
is far too smoothed over by
heat and applause
for you to try to
walk it without a razor-sharp railway
under you.
Like,
that scene in Donnie Darko where
the rainbow bubbles know
which step you'll take
to
the fridge, the couch, the TV.
I'm talking about irony!
How
it's the only way to not slip.
Someday you'll
realize
how the great Dog above
didn't always mean for us
to be so
literal.

there's a moment in the car where I realize that I enjoy proximity
the proximity of me to the body next to mine
just body with blood and heat and pumping
just the pumping of the music through the speakers
with the driver screaming,
and all of us in the back seat nodding and saying
yes, yes, yes (rest) yes.
I enjoy the proximity of my thoughts to yours
how do you know?
I enjoy the proximity of emotion in action
as your hand taps the closest surface and your head wags from back to forth I feel the YES YES BEAT BEAT that you feel
I feel the closeness, feel the solidarity
there's both, you know? you know.
I promise I won't care.
We're singing and I'm thinking about the sound of my own voice and thinking that,
you must like it.
You must like how it's not quite on tune but it's got lots of soul.
You must like how it's not quite that scene in the movie but it's quite inherently human.
I, too, consider myself the point of everything.
Not because I'm great, or anything like that remotely, but because I'm
here.
If I see this, does it pertain to me? Just because I see it does it mean it makes a sound?
Let the music feel you, don't feel it to much. It will tell you what to do with your right hand while your left grabs the wheel, and don't worry, it'll make you sweat and salivate.

One needn’t know the nodules of my
secret self
to clasp to my
super nova-
The ballpoint pen bears meaning beyond the plastic
even after extensive efforts
you can't expect to be the one
to ceremoniously break it
but broken, does it matter which beaten,
battered guise it takes?
Consider the others like it:
a million pieces of shattered sharpness, still producing ink.
No matter the tired efforts of your fingers,
extensions of the brain which aches for escape,
ragged nails picking at that plastic piece--
the potential remains.
Consider the ink: succinct
reserved, and well.

my legs have seen better cashmere
than this lamp of blanched bulb-
and my tendrils, better sunshine
than this pallor of fraying felt.
would you excuse me- just for a second?
I'd hate to reduce that discordant disk-golf
that you call "discourse"
to anything more than-
what's better known as-
abhorrent.
would you excuse me? I'll be right back-
it's just that late nights tend to
dilate my find of last rites and conflate,
switch back, rewind, the time so that
my psyche somehow aligns
with what's trying to find me.

how quickly it all changes
from light to dark
as the weather gets colder still-
we are running out of
time-
daylight, save
me.

I’m fine with the fact that each second dies as soon as it’s born,
birthing and killing me along with it.
As the man-made measuring mechanism
tells us that with each moment, there is
a change,
So I, too, metamorphose
with each tick and tock.
A death of self- a senescing-
timely, and repetitive.
The moulting of an identity that once existed.
The world giving me a new opportunity
to decompose, contribute to the carbon cycle,
yes, again,
turn me to CO2
release me into the soil and let a plant grow where I stood.
Every day
with endless opportunities to have my own
renaissance.

Landon Pigg plays in the background.
His eyes are there in front of mine, staring right back at me,
except they’re not really.
He’s not here and I’m not sure if that’s my fault or his. Who’s the protagonist?
A creatively cut-together camera angle
captures our embrace perfectly, and zooms out on that bed,
on the brick roof,
on the college campus.
Oh, good, this is a college movie,
nice and angsty and brooding as it should be.
My thoughts have a narrator and I imagine myself watched by millions.
(I’m not vain, I’m insecure)
What would mass media think if this life was a movie?
2 out of 5 stars,
not a very wholesome flick,
doesn’t seem to have any moral
or lesson,
or even a continuous plot line for that matter.