My best friend was fiction. The ocean where I lived was nothing but an enormous tank capable of sustaining the plastic we created in our own image. On odd days the electric lampshade sun would malfunction and the skin of tourists would turn moldy grey from calcium deficiency or rather a will not to see the fabricated sky for what it was: a cardboard cutout created with the sole intention of comfort.
My number in school was always 33
whether it was outside playing sports or being the 33rd person in line at the cafeteria or hanging that number on the lapel of my shirt like a cross at the top of a hill in a Roman crucifying.
For this my life revolved around that number.
33 reasons to go outside and witness the cruelty
33 socks missing their twin at the bottom of a washing machine
33 ideal mates that always say the wrong thing before the meeting takes place
33 witches hanging at the bottom of a lake for swimming instead of sinking
my favorite fiction is the one that tries so hard to hide under the bed
the one that lies on the front porch step of that man accused of robbery in his 20’s
the one that believes when it’s told the earth is melting
that it will just goop up at the bottom of the devil’s dinner plate

do you fear fear

a nail biter? a bedwetter?
or are there other compulsions
you cling to

step out, from the stale shade of the dark
that consumed you
no longer does it
feel the warmth that the sun casts down
sometimes, it's all one can do to beat the blues

this road of life is rocky
and it sees us all stumble
you chart your course

stick to it

as a blade meeting grindstone
water's introduction to limestone

Modernity sounds so much like too much like

She's a mother

Not a trucker, mister bucks,

Too mature

She seems atypical maternal wit

Matrimonious

Age of knowing better...

And most times bedwetter babes

Ignorance can't write you letters

So now how's this just now

New most times certain to be

Better

The weather our love encounters

Living Modernism

A breath without Lies

I chose to utterings no longer

Long means "dragon"

Wars' fiery language

How loud dead pasts linger

Mosaic hearts that we are

The bird is the finger

Hate's invisible fire

Chaos speaks

When no truth in modernism

Where none dare to sleep.

More fashion forward

The All of Ages

The pages the Here and Now

Modernism weeps

Her mystique...

Knowing How.

Now...

I am still a ***** bedwetter
when the urge is overwhelming.

Locked. Dominated.

Tear-stained pillows.

I found a strand of hair in the bed.