Blue Time

Do you know the noise of the early morning? All the nothing

the screensaver rescuing the mind from sleep but still wandering.

All the wires tangled on the floor. Not many, but still disorienting.

It must be room temperature outside. Inside your head it’s all hot and sticky.

I don’t know how you feel tonight, or any night. Everything seems frozen.

The atmosphere is not a result of the humidity; it’s only something wrong with your receptors.

Earlier in the evening I was looking at clouds. I was not being facetious when I told you of the peculiar shapes they made.

I don’t want you to be in that place without me; I feel like you’re not telling me what you’re really thinking about sometimes.

I feel like a child.

I’ve had enough of this so that’s why I have to leave here and be with you.

I feel like we see each other and ourselves in varied ways at different points in time although we always remain connected.

I can live with you being whichever way you are

I know you know the noise of the early morning. The blue time, it permeates through the both of us, not just you.

The nothing is everything. We may sometimes get tired of our identical screen-savers,

but we keep them because we’re so used to them. We need them for sleep.

They have become routine parts of our lives.

Is it the sound of bells that you enjoy? Get back to me on that as well because I’m not quite sure.

I think you do. Whenever we walk around the city I notice the comfort sneaking inside. One day we will have peace.

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Trying to Sell Books on the Stoop

teachers coming from halfway houses

reminders of apologies

never taken seriously

exceeding influence

that is non-existent

worries of being

how should it be known

why anything is extant

fish do nothing

useless inquiries

“I want to buy a cement block and sit on it for the rest of my life.”

buzzing drone

symbolism prone

misinterpretation

everything automatic

deserved castration

pacing the same

streets searching

for bottoms ejected

life inducing pain

barely pleasure

it could be better

if only

Humid Death

Sri Lankan atrocities along with pangs

in my stomach make for right now

in the humid

 

perceptions of moments in non-requital

lead painted tree on a plastic cup

 

Sri Lankan war atrocities at the zoo

the cages are neglect abandoned tigers spit metal

spots so sullen

no one knows what to do

sinister simians shake

the tiger and I will pounce on you

 

strip down the child caked in dirt

execute them

Before the Blackness is Through

plexiglass pictures

the little they think

everything they know

about us is wrong

polymethyl methacrylate

a message was sent

from an uncanny number

I would remember

if you really cared

spiraling downward

drug-blob

wandering

not so amiably

my failure is complete-

A Gazebo Where He Once Stood

hey angel lamp,

why don’t you spread

your feathers of light

over that old man

and his suicides?

leave the umbrella

and the window open

so the air won’t grow

hey, hard, grainy earth

how could it have known?

Spring is in her throes

quit lacking mirth

without cigarettes

old man absent now

the old man outside

staring at the twinkling

the light makes a pattern

a definitive v

he can’t remember

these are our tombs

open, dry and bare

cracked bones carved

magnified by ignorance

omnipotenceless

broken trees

force their freedom

I guess he doesn’t exist anymore

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