Insanity in the Empty Air

On the beach there was a large machine

shifting sand back and forth. I couldn’t bear

the beauty of the sky. I didn’t deserve

the sight of the stars. I wouldn’t forgive

myself for what I had done.

 

Lament aloud, don’t ask for

any signs, don’t expect

answers.

 

I stumbled through the sand

clutching my face as a family past.

I made it to the toilet shack, but

when I was finished I couldn’t stand

the sight of my face so I let

the urine drip

from my

fingertips.

 

It was bound to happen.

Sun Turns Grass

From this angle

sunlight turns grass

yellow.

Out of Your Mind

No awareness of the Other.

This is not a song of myself, this is the song

of failure. You can still see some stars

in this city. Then memories crash

into your mind of you out of your mind half naked

and horizontal staring wide-eyed

into an almost empty sky.

Your perception of those stars and of yourself.

You’d have to travel into the past

in order to fully understand

the embodiment of the body.

Memories would be brighter

if the city of your mind

was not polluted.

Although they still wouldn’t be.

In this wilderness the descent will be

unknowable, and the depth might well be

unbearable.

Flow Anonymously

A few beers and an amalgamation

of animal flesh and organs

will not nurture me, but at least it will hold

me over (along with, perhaps, some microwaved

leftovers). Will I remember

this exact cigarette on this stoop in this town

if I am lucky enough to be alive

a year from now?

Most likely these images will merge

into a rubber sphere resembling the unsatisfying

hotdog I just ate. A processed

and pre-conceived cinematic fiction-food

that my future thoughts will feed

upon in slight dismay. No, I will not remember each moment,

they will flow altogether into the river

of myself, then the bay of my generation,

while ultimately being consumed by the sea

of humanity. Grace is the will

to fight against the onslaught

when all else seems lost.

All I’ve ever known is resistance.

Playful Precariousness

rotten apples in

a bottle, barefoot and bent

on a row-home roof