we are somewhere between maintaining the comic relief we find necessary to stay alive and inappropriately utilizing a coping mechanism during a time in which we are hyper aware of our own mortality. we're standing by freight cars and staring at the river, while a toddler races by on a tricycle. we know we are going to die someday.

Lean out and contemplate the Empire State.
After all, there's nothing else left to you.
The spider-web paths of the city
Branch out too often to form the whole
picture in your head more than a few
stems out.

Where do your lost hours go?
Is there a heaven for the good ones?
The ones you spend reading Harry Potter
in Spanish?
As if it's really so much better than reading
trash like 1Q84 or Plato's Republic
for 1200 page-intervals of excess language or
A bunch of questionable assertions
backing up logical conclusions on the most essential questions,
Respectively.

When I sit with the bright light in my eyes,
it triggers the breakdown of melatonin molecules in
my blood,
Among other things.
Will this restore my Brooklyn Majesty
in swells of lightwave tides
Or will it lack the broad spectrum necessary
to push my half-developed form out of the tidal pool
to make a swim amongst
frail men in shark suits?