Feb 2018
A baby learning to walk. an old man fails to.
you haven't been touched in a week aside from a man who likes your socks and shoelaces offering you an elbow cause you have a chicken sandwich in your hands.
Shorts so small you can see the pockets. Red hair. Walking past fossils cause you're looking at your phone.
Why did you go in the "insect zoo" Mike? You ****** hate spiders.
your most human interaction is the man who asks if he can use your leftover donut bag to carry his food. The food he got from the soup kitchen across the street. The one you went to to use the bathroom. Borrowing him privilege in bag form.
he doesn't like to eat outside. Too many mosquitoes. He babywalks with a cane.
The gun that shot Lincoln is tiny and I am interested in it only for it's death potential.
A French family crying, don't have the right papers to get into the White house tour. I wish I could tell them the tour wasn't that good.
drunk conversation with brother about father.
don't talk to. Don't know how. Don't want to.
I am swallowed by the heat
The silence that passes for conversation.
my mother is very conservative. the strain of hiding myself. Closed lips
I am a silent eavesdropper. A parent pays 7.50 for a ****** tourist piece of pizza. Placed in front of her child. Exhaustion drips off her face. Oozes out of her posture. Her kid doesn't like the pizza. Mouth a tight line. The child tells a story. The tight line blooms into laughter.
My friend (I wonder about kissing her) goes to a Philando Castile memorial. I go to the lincoln memorial. Pictures and profit. It's smaller than I thought while she’s heavy from the impact.
Memorial – pictures – walking – repeat – heat – feet – and the wondering of how much memorializing goes on at giant statues.
His fedora looks stupid. small kids bumps into me. child-style. I don't see him cause I'm so tall. His mother tells him to watch where he's going.
My dad’s not on the trip. Divorce’ll do that to you. My brother calls him a lost soul
The trip was good and I would never go again.
you haven't been touched in a week aside from a man who likes your socks and shoelaces offering you an elbow cause you have a chicken sandwich in your hands.
Shorts so small you can see the pockets. Red hair. Walking past fossils cause you're looking at your phone.
Why did you go in the "insect zoo" Mike? You ****** hate spiders.
your most human interaction is the man who asks if he can use your leftover donut bag to carry his food. The food he got from the soup kitchen across the street. The one you went to to use the bathroom. Borrowing him privilege in bag form.
he doesn't like to eat outside. Too many mosquitoes. He babywalks with a cane.
The gun that shot Lincoln is tiny and I am interested in it only for it's death potential.
A French family crying, don't have the right papers to get into the White house tour. I wish I could tell them the tour wasn't that good.
drunk conversation with brother about father.
don't talk to. Don't know how. Don't want to.
I am swallowed by the heat
The silence that passes for conversation.
my mother is very conservative. the strain of hiding myself. Closed lips
I am a silent eavesdropper. A parent pays 7.50 for a ****** tourist piece of pizza. Placed in front of her child. Exhaustion drips off her face. Oozes out of her posture. Her kid doesn't like the pizza. Mouth a tight line. The child tells a story. The tight line blooms into laughter.
My friend (I wonder about kissing her) goes to a Philando Castile memorial. I go to the lincoln memorial. Pictures and profit. It's smaller than I thought while she’s heavy from the impact.
Memorial – pictures – walking – repeat – heat – feet – and the wondering of how much memorializing goes on at giant statues.
His fedora looks stupid. small kids bumps into me. child-style. I don't see him cause I'm so tall. His mother tells him to watch where he's going.
My dad’s not on the trip. Divorce’ll do that to you. My brother calls him a lost soul
The trip was good and I would never go again.
