Swirl of bitter smoke as smooth as a scent.
Richness, indulgence.
Why deny the body corporal pleasures?
What more is there to living
than cake, creamy coffee, scents, softness-
excessiveness in excess.
Finding meaning in knowing that
it's all Absurd.
When the pang of wanting arises,
do not deny. There are no rules.
Willpower will not follow you beyond the grave.

Brass bed posts, tainted and smoothed
by touch, casual grazes,
as the feet touch the cold floor,
the breath creaks out.
A wooden table, round and stained
that softly accepts the heavy mug.
That gives the fingers something
roughly smooth to touch
when there's nothing-
or when there's everything, it's all too much-
the sensory.
A window with an eroded sill.
Or better yet- a balcony.
A purple sky, the air humid and warm.
A chance to breathe.

Is it selfish? Is it how true life should be?
Lazy, gluttonous, pointless, boring.
Tell me I don't know what's good for me.

Sleep, wake,
bed, sheets soft and hugging
tugging on a duvet to cover from the
breeze- an open window with curtains dancing.
Is it time clocks or is it days and feelings?
11:30 is not too early for lunch because
lunch is when you're hungry.
My body calls for
blueberries, tobacco, dozy sleeps on and off for 3 hours,
dark chocolate squares to excite my tongue,
outdoors, fresh air, being naked in the day time.
A shirt with a joke on it that only you understand.

creaking bones and heavy eyes
the distant stare of deprivation
teeth hurt up into my eye sockets
from clenching in the night,
terrorized by my own brain chemicals

I need to eat- fill my stomach and my
bloodstream with sugars and caffeine.
I need to sleep- maybe if I disappear
from my own thoughts for a while
the world will be a little quieter-
a little less demanding
when I wake.

Maybe it's in my own mind.

there's no rules
governing the way
to proper life.
There's no advisor
telling you the rules
to having done it right.
When it's your time for
your organs to shut down
and communication from
brain to body to cease,
there's no final test of
whether or not you've made
an impact or done it
the way people expect you to.

All that matters is that you've
done things.
You've eaten too much
cheesecake, and been in
trouble with the law,
and it's all been good. It's all
in accordance with physics,
and it's all
been here.

Take deep breaths- deeper- deeper still.
Shake your head, squeeze your eyes closed and open.
Keep striding through the night- faster- faster still.
Tighten the straps on your backpack until it squeezes
your shoulders like someone grabbing you from behind.
Listen to the sounds of the breaths that you keep *******.
Clench your hand around the old receipt in your jacket pocket
rub it between your fingers until blisters form like mountain ranges
between two tectonic plates.
Walk- power walk- breathing deeper still-
up the steep and winding hill, away from the street lamps.
There’s not enough
air
to fill the heaving, squeezing lungs.
Vision blurs, white noise.
Out-of-body weightlessness.
Feeling nothing, your brain a loud buzz of
desperation.
Sensing almost nothing
except for that insatiable breath.
Keep hauling the body
in a state of emergency
past the other ones who walk about.
One of them whoops- hollers- laughs.
Let a breathy sob escape into the night,
and wonder- cursing the noise of joy- how they can be happy
when you’re anything but.
Soon, in a moment of
clarity,
the lungs let up on their erratic work.
Reach the level grass at the top,
like a parachute dropped from an airplane.

At home, there is fullness.
There is not taking for granted
the smell of your mother
or the shuffle of her
soft pajama pants as she
makes you both coffee in the
quiet unmoving morning.
Blanket. Colors. Television.

At home, there is forgetting.
There is a solid layer between
you and the demands of
The World. Your family takes
your hand, persuades you:
“just stay here. Sit down. Have
another cup of coffee”.
Quiet. Agreements. Closed windows.

At home, there is guilt.
No, there is a version of guilt
that is more like longing.
It’s more like wishing that seconds
were as long as millenia.
Knowing that you’re choosing to
leave this behind.
Put on a coat. Pack a bag. Cause a commotion.
Break the silence that
defines this comfortable and loving
place.

But you know that
at home, there is leaving.
There is expending of time and energy.
There must be chunks of yourself that
you throw out there to The World
because it matters.
Fear. Exhaustion. Exhilaration.
There are things to be seen, and lived.
There are people to meet.
There is a better self to be found.
There are notches to make
on your belt, and boxes to check
on your list.

There are sisters, mothers, brothers, dogs, cats, frogs, couches, blankets, dinners, colors
to tell these things too.
Because at home,
there is always coming home.

I follow a man around a bookstore.
His eyes
tell me that he is
of the age of reciprocation,
but his upper thighs
tell me he's a father-
he has occupations.
The ***
of his jeans tell me he's got
better places to sit
than this bookstore with me.

We were addicted to
each other
like gambling.
Like counting the cards
and knowing you'll win.
We were filthy
******* rich together.
The smallest bet,
or the highest stakes,
like,
put it all on red
and reap the dividends
but don't make a show of it.
It's like,
we could have been billionaires,
started our own casino,
reveled in
the constant flow of fortune.
It's like giving up because
we moved down the block,
and because
the bus stopped running.