n'existe pas por quoi

 n'existe pas por quoi

because of wrecked truck left roadside and wimpering

a root of bleached reeds, not whispering in wind

indifferences between eastern ignorance and western sin

because of year-end best-of music countdowns 

spent candle contributions at the marble altar of legacy

because of hunger for last trickles of sun on the frame

burnt hand on toaster oven— why scratch an itch?

because of sixty hour down-time from forty hour work-weeks

our contrasting opinions on appropriate beard length

a panicked Embarcadero phonecall, dysphoria mundi

because you swipe swipe swipe rather than fathom untrammeled want-talk

his face an empty stare lit by soft chips of slate light

because sometimes, despite yearning tides of labial warm, neither milk nor honey flow

when you don't pray for something you get nothing

billowing blue hills, compass trumpet, the existence of zinc

because our enemy's poisoned balm is called cute and cauterizing

right actions prove right wisdom so abandonment avoids questioning "how shall we return?"

one last bastion for perimenopausal ass lovers

graceful as deer bounding pasture fences drenched in snow

because on my riverwalk with those mooing crowds the heavens opened and out streamed a choir of white silence

because the conjurer's spree concluded via closing her book

clattering patchwork mantras, smoky city buildings with white walls, red floors

let out your whole ringtone, let it go to voicemail

post-marathon-like chuffing after a downstairs laundry haul

because I'm questioning if it counts as being naked if I am under this blanket

Crucial Truths of Science

I feel like my life is a stage-set
and I have just emerged from a black cave
a cavernous expanse of frilly wigs and costume tails
and other dusty identities that no one dares wear anymore
into the snare of acidulous spot-light
with absolutely no idea what to say

Woke up exhausted this morning.  Dreams of boys I used to love.  Not anymore.  Slipped off like antimatter, out of space and time and into something else.  Me, today.  Smoking the hours away and cleaning up the mess with the smell of bleach.  One day is fine, I can take a shit and think nothing of it.  But when a week of shit piles up there's not enough bleach to really scrub out the stains.  And we're getting to that my boy.  We're getting to that.

Whispering  things like "bullseye" and "follow the money," these solitons travel down the perfect railroad track at a constant speed.
Sooner or later these networks will erode and you'll forget me and I'll forget me.  Remember something else.  Always something else isn't there?  My Dad says so.  There's always something else.  You'd be surprised.

I handed out little slips of paper to everyone I know.
"Why is he wearing a mask?" the ones I didn't know asked their friends I knew even less.  I gave the slips of paper to them too.

I'm sorry.

It said.  Girls, you know?  I've known them all my life.  We meet and we become good friends and we go our seperate ways.  It's really quite beautiful.  Girls are beautiful and impervious to change.  So full of will.  So full of love for their cats and sleeping dogs dreaming babies and this and that.  A thousand pictures that I put down on the table and smoke the ether of the day away exhausted.  Back in the days of high school I loved one.  Went on stage and couldn't remember my line.  Who's sleeping with who?  Which boy loves me?  I don't know anything figure it out yourself these drugs aren't working right I don't feel anything good except the urge to go to sleep and even its not that strong maybe not wake up.  You can't give me a promise of hope can you?  Didn't think so.  Animal cruelty.  Impure food additives.  Don't hand the paper back, you can keep it, it's my gift to you.  Sorrow.

The stage is bare.  The mountains daunt and clap.  The sky is empty.  My hair is long.  Hair grows out of the strangest places.  Shower shave and shit.  Tiles bleached to infinity.  Train turnstiles loom like crusty mountains.  That's good right?
The sound of someone laughing while they're tied down on the tracks?
That's drama.
The perfect train tracks.  The empty sky. Aw fuck it I'm going