it is an afternoon
and i have a drawn painting
hanging on my wall

no moon on it,
nor stars,
not even an atmosphere.

it is white
with a crude illustration
of a carrot inside a cup.

and i'm mad
angry
heaving.

i take the bus route from fairview to new york
it is an afternoon
and i have a camera with me

zen, i said to myself
there is zen in art
and action

but not with madmen
who only takes pictures
of street signs
and dead frogs
and harsh houses
filled with tiny thieves

i look at their eyes
they look back
my fingers turn into fists

i run to my favorite place
a pub with faceless drunks
loud loutish lovers
and smiths of all sort

it is not my favorite place,
one bit of me decided.
it is loud
and the beer is overpriced

no it isn't
the beer is normal priced
you're paying for peanuts.

i take a sip
no, i am mad

i take a swig
no, they're still waiting for you
at home
or at the slums
or school

i smash the bottle on the counter
and eat the little pieces
soaked in beer sauce

i can enjoy this, i thought
i've tasted worse
from better people

i wake up. my peanuts are gone.
i had five bottles of black stout

home, then
home
home
person, homme
remember who you are
homme,
home.

it is the new moon
but it didn't matter

they changed the streetlamps into LED's
and now everything looks like
real

it bothers me
things that are real

the way ahead is glowing
the last stars left are on the horizon
slums, and streetlamps, and stray lightbulbs.

i run

i have been doing quite a lot of running.

from things that are not chasing me

i ran from dogs, cats

beautiful women, ugly men

with ugly rewards

from the ether of my own past

and the solipsism of my incoming future

no, i am mad.

i walk

there is a light on my right side

...

an old toyota.

i wake up with the asphalt on my cheeks.

it is night

it is warm, somehow

i was fine

i stand up, the driver looked at me

it was probably not that serious anyways
especially since it's just me

sir, your arm

no, i am okay.

no, i am not, you owe me beers

okay. go home.

home
home
homme
me.

...

it is day.

my keys are under the flowerpot
and everything is locked.

my arm felt like a limp stem
of some sad vegetable

i enter. there are smashed up plates and cups on the floor.

i open my bag. the camera wasn't even there. it was on my other bag. (******)

upstairs, ripped paper all over. sketches. school stuff. letters.

and the painting

there is nothing on the painting.

it is white bristol board taped to a wall.

and it had nothing.

me
home
home
homme

nothing.