Dec 2019
Dec 30th
What soft light bounces between the wooden shudders, These slats in rows.
Let’s grow ugly and fat together
and let the lines of a couch or bed depress into our form of repeated placement as we wear small spectacles and squint anyway as one reads and the other sleeps despite the yellow wash over white linens and deep shadows.
These slats in Rows. Clouded white light
peering around the vestibule.
Nobody walks on their heels with their
head crook to the neck and their eyes
behind. Nobody walks backwards.
I’m not here much longer I don’t think I can take it. Living in uncertainty without an element of death or danger, only monetary insecurity, is the worst stressor which far surpasses the former of having to watch ones back, of having to look forward and plan, of tenting or warming oneself by flame.
This living is death.
I’m to smile today, and it’s not by choice but elation
but laying in the hollows of the wooden floor built up on stilts where every step echos as you slide with socks backwards for just a moment, this conclusion of thought itself in the soft paws and feet treading, where in echos of the depth of the warm pipes and soft dirt and dead lost pets and cabinets of sticky noted named bottles of soap of people long since visited and mounds of photos resounds family.
What soft light bounces between the wooden shudders, These slats in rows.
Let’s grow ugly and fat together
and let the lines of a couch or bed depress into our form of repeated placement as we wear small spectacles and squint anyway as one reads and the other sleeps despite the yellow wash over white linens and deep shadows.
These slats in Rows. Clouded white light
peering around the vestibule.
Nobody walks on their heels with their
head crook to the neck and their eyes
behind. Nobody walks backwards.
I’m not here much longer I don’t think I can take it. Living in uncertainty without an element of death or danger, only monetary insecurity, is the worst stressor which far surpasses the former of having to watch ones back, of having to look forward and plan, of tenting or warming oneself by flame.
This living is death.
I’m to smile today, and it’s not by choice but elation
but laying in the hollows of the wooden floor built up on stilts where every step echos as you slide with socks backwards for just a moment, this conclusion of thought itself in the soft paws and feet treading, where in echos of the depth of the warm pipes and soft dirt and dead lost pets and cabinets of sticky noted named bottles of soap of people long since visited and mounds of photos resounds family.
O
