Who’s this life belong to? Tea at lip’s burning edge of mouth, timbers of house. Align the dishes perfectly, for perfection you have to spend some time with it, and even then it is only perfect for just a little time and has to be redesigned. Deserving of in and out breathing, chewing food and swallowing. Receptacles to separate. Don’t pour soup into your french fries.
Look into the room out there and you see your friend dancing out of his mind, drugged up losing it. A new side. A placement misaligned, an overbite.
Do you fix what you break or break it some more? How generic is your terror? Do you sway like you’ve got a split personality? Can you write down exactly what you believe?
My eyes sting tired and I’d rather be sitting than standing in this small town of death. Two buildings down from a funeral home. Cool, like Six Feet Under. Maybe not as cool. In Winter I’m falling in love with my bed. They say every hour slept before midnight is worth two hours. That’s some heavy shit. What is that?
Strive to be more creative. Take that just how it sounds. But also I’ll say, stripping down what appears to be mundane, seeing value in the small things, slowing down, making less mistakes, seeing beauty all around – try for all that without tripping on acid tabs, that kind of business. Who’s up for it?
kite returning in low
this is breakfast time
he sold books
like a missionary
everything was
improved
over months
how he talked
every breath
it seemed
wasn’t such
an obvious
sales pitch
the old woman
retained some beauty
her smile lightened
the burden
of her children
grown now
carrying groceries
money burning
holes in their pockets
their bosses
asked too many
repetitive questions
work fires bullets
it’s inevitable
you’re singing
the dinner song
just before dinner
it’s a celebration
turn the corner
parallel park well
drive like you know
I’m not scared of birds
but yes to snakes, spiders
not so much rats
big yes to zombies
and certain television commercials
time to sing the bedtime song
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