Standing in the bathroom
Putting lotion on my face
Tapping my foot
To the sound of the shower
Water splashing
On the other side of the curtain
I said aloud “I love you”
And from the other side
Of the white curtain
Came a cute hand
Along with the words
“I love you too babe”
i stood here
and dripped
in my shower towel
writing
my wet hair
on my forehead
seeing as
i sprung from
the still spitting shower
with a thought in mind
and only now
with it down
realize i am standing
in a puddle
and the shower
still going
the sun hits
the windshields
of cars passing
by
on california
just right
to shoot up
through our window
and into my eye
i try to get the coffee high
with the weed don’t worry
and baby pushing me forward
while meditation holds me present
so ending up in the middle
of a four-direction compass
staying steady on the first dimension
while riding all the time
on the second
there is a line created
by baby’s body
when she lays
on her left side
facing me
facing the window
from which the morning light
comes over my shoulder
and onto her chest
making a shadow
where her breast
has its fullness
creating a dark line
like a fish hook
that any human
can recognize
as the outline
of one side
of a woman’s chest
i wonder if
feeling is the same
as being felt
i wonder if
movie actors have time
to be themselves
i wonder if
those who run the world
know that they do
i wonder if
work will go by
fast or slow
i wonder if
our landlord will finally
fix our fridge today
i wonder if
baby
really loves me
i wonder if
the company
will make it
i wonder if
my brother
will be alright
i wonder if
sleeping with baby
makes my back
better or worse
i wonder if
or when
my body will start to fail
like my dad’s
i wonder if
my dad was like me
when he was young
i wonder if
my mom
still has hope
i wonder if
i’m doing the right thing
i wonder if
i’ll feel the same way
when i’m older
big concrete blocks
from construction
clanging in the lift
mixing with the idle motor
making street noise
in the early morning
marking a new city day
with the spirit of building
and “must be done”
settling into their new
truck bucket home
before being transported
to be blocks elsewhere
there are three
thing i need
phone, wallet,
and keys
—so long as
i have
these three
there is nothing
bothering me
seeing up
at night
dressed in
a soft light
not quite
dark as
it will be
soon enough
walking
on the sidewalk
looking up
seeing a spire
in the skyline
holding up
my phone
trying
to catch it
but not
without zoom
so i walk
further
up montgomery
holding my phone
watching the spire
grow nearer
until pine
i realize
the angle
is impossible
with another building
in the way
that glare
creeps crawls
shining sneaking
from the ceiling light
through open space
and onto the phone screen
that makes a cutting
bright white light
like a knife
getting into my eye
and cutting past
my cornea
into my brain
confusing everything
like a shock
all of a sudden
i can’t see
and have to turn
the phone screen
back over
what comes from
the candle flame
dancing through
its glass holder
and mixing with
the shelf light
together
make quite a show
on the outside
of the white
shower curtain
so standing
under the water
watching
i forget
how long it’s been
i look at myself
in the mirror
in the dark
for long enough
that i wonder
if it is really me
or just another
dark object
in the room
—i stand still
for as long
as i can bear
thinking
i may no longer
be myself
but have become
something else
—until i can’t
take it any longer
and raise my arms
to see
in the mirror
the almost unidentified
dark object
do the same
—and so can
crawl back into bed
with less fear
of waking up
as something else
a steady stream
of honey
from the bottle
held
unnecessarily high
above the plate
forming at first
globbed tiers
like stalagmites
holding their form
only briefly
before melting
into an undistinguished
larger glob
making sense to me
as an individual
at first unique
then born into
a uniform mass
baby scares me
sometimes
like she’d leave
her hand
on the stove
if i wasn’t there
to pull it away
her kisses are loud in my ear
like you wouldn’t expect
from such a soft thing
supposed to be sweet
but crashing loud, hurting even
so close to the drum
going to the light
to the beam under the shade
brining what needs to be seen
like the page of a book
or a pill bottle label
in the middle of the night
rather than flipping the switch
and blasting the whole room
like a grenade
for a bullet’s job
a pill bottle in this case
so i can see the label
and cure a hangover
in the middle of the night
and make sure i don’t poison myself
with the wrong bottle
there was a time
when i was
in front of it
lately
i mostly
just try
and keep up
simplifying
everything
eyes closed
no matter how
complicated
seen things
can get
remember
you can
close your eyes
wanting to do
everything
going from
one thing
to another
and end up
all the time
in between
doing nothing
even one person
propped up
isn’t the one
with so many
to support him
the same many
who in idle hours
taking short breaks
from supporting
wish to be
the one
they support
the yellow rectangles
painted proportionately
across the street
between the parts
of either sidewalk
where the curb
slopes down slightly
to meet the street
for pedestrians
to step off safely
and cross
in the dead quiet
of the night
i feel so awake
and out of place
while everything else
is so dead
and there’s nothing
not even
the neighbors
to talk
or the cars outside
to go by
standing
with my back
to the wind
pant legs
flapping
leaning back
just a little
hands
in my pockets
sound
wooshing by
my ears
waiting
to warm up
between gusts
always trying
to advance
and move forward
with no time
to settle down
and pay attention
to what now
is quite wonderful
and in
a circular
way
is that which
you chase after
all the time
right here
wanting
immediately
for the three dots
on the bubble
to pop up
needing
the conversation
to continue
as if
in person
—this being
our only
substitute
forgot how
to be alone
being so much
with baby
art
being all
and needing
to press on
into
after
overwhelmed
with
the rush
coming on
all at once
seeing
exclaiming
wanting it all
to stay
this way
knowing
it won’t
so trying
to stay focused
while it does
days
when i should
have stayed
and did
in fact
but wondering
frightfully
if i hadn’t
and quit
up and left
and couldn’t
have ended up
here
where
i like it so
and would have
certainly
pressed on
had i known
but could have
just as easily
not
not knowing
what
was at stake
looking at
what was
a mirror image
of myself
that now
looking too long
has become
un-
identified
and broken into
constituent
crooked teeth
and an un-
recognizable
smile
the floor creaks
clearly
when no one
else
is home
to hear
laying
in the apartment
on the floor
during an odd
off hour
having left
work early
and waiting
for baby
to come home
a mind
behind
closed eyes
wondering
where
in the world
the body
has gone
putting away
trying
to sleep
my phone
into the drawer
of the nightstand
then thinking
of another
poem
and having
to pull my phone
back out
dynamic
and creatively
together
in new ways
combining
bodies, novel
new senses
of touch
it’s a noisy night
with the news
from the open window
in the bathroom
and the traffic
always the traffic
and the neighbors’
conversation
through the wall
behind us
the blinds open
just barely
so a slim
stretch of light
creeps through
keeping
me awake
i want for
the little square
of green light
on the wall
to turn yellow;
i don’t know
why exactly
but i do, maybe
just for something
to change
or because
i know
what comes next
so well
that i just
want it to happen
already
so when it does
the satisfaction
is short-lived
and soon after
turns to red
i turn the key
in my front door
and it doesn’t
give
right away
reminding me
not everything
is supposed to be
so easy
like the fan blades going
and the wire
inside of the light bulb
hanging by a cord
from the ceiling
and the sound from
the speaker in the corner
just slightly louder
than the headphones
in my ears
a sliver
of morning light
shows itself
on the left side
of the square
wooden table
where i work
in the cafe
casting a shadow
beyond
the cup of tea
still steaming
—the same
table
on which
there was
only darkness
an hour before
everything
is done for me
because i’ve lived
the same life
the same day
many times before
—so my shirts
are form fitted
from having been
washed and worn
on the same body
and the same people
i already know
just say hello
and less
nice to meet you’s
and i still
remember
the way to where
i usually go
so less looking
at a map
and trying
to figure it out
and i know
what i like to eat
so i push my cart
in the same path
at the store
and only stop
when something
is out of stock
oh the morning
yes it is
what i thought of
last night
when the day
had become too much
and in need
of something new
why crunched so much into a form that has passed for fear mostly of being formless so holding on without realizing that it is all still there and a brief detour won’t erase the whole map as long as the journeys traced with your finger are taken at some point or another or even that tracing itself is a location or event on a higher order of maps
why crunched so much
into a form that has passed
for fear mostly
of being formless
so holding on without realizing
that it is all still there
and a brief detour won’t erase
the whole map
as long as the journeys traced
with your finger
are taken at some point or another
or even that tracing itself
is a location or event
on a higher order of maps
left after a week worked hard in the car and my shoulders starting to relax a little as they do at least until a gradual tightening come sunday evening but just happy now to be headed out of downtown and back to where i spend my nights and the city has somehow kept the building under control and so is more natural to see the sky and easier to forget about what is other than a mono blue or white or even grey at the worst but even the fog on a rainy night i prefer much more just to sit inside and take time to boil water for tea and eat then steam or otherwise relax and spend time without having to get a return on the investment
reaching into a thoughtless mind wondering again if the poetry has gone like i know i have thought before and without fail the poems return but for some reason like before i think again that this time is different—that it has really gone for good this time.
suppose i said
what i should have
all along—
would it matter
now, after
all that’s
already happened
i feel myself
wasting away
when all
the attention I’ve paid
is to the out and out
on going out side
of myself
where most
meaning is made
and drives me on
but a body can only
be driven so far
by meaning alone
until physical matter
must be upkept
so only sometimes
several waking hours
when spent as if
time won’t pass so fast
and really left
to look deep down
into what’s always there
but often glossed over
in favor of other space
made important
by limited time
i talked to cloud
and sun could not say
whether we are waiting on
high, risen, or setting
today
tip toe tag along
prancing praying
you don’t get caught
doing exactly what
everyone else does
words make you feel because you use them. if you heard a word, but had never used words to mean anything yourself, i wonder if you would hear anything. words are fat with the weight of past experience. different words are more important to different people. the reason that writing can be so emotional for me is that when i write a poem or make up a story, the words i use are inevitably defined by how i’ve used them in my personal life.
it’s actually the work in the office all day focused on what has answers that crams my art into small pockets of time so it becomes less like a drip which spread out doesn’t pack a punch and so means nothing much in a concise enough form that can be read and impressed upon like a flood where if you let the good build up behind a dam and mingle together creating in your subconscious what comes forth all at once after work on the bus ride home scrambling to hold onto the rail with one hand and type the poem that’s been waiting all day on your phone with the other hand
there are two ways to write poetry. one is to write words as they come to you, somewhat randomly. the other is to try to think of what makes sense or what is true or what people will like—and then write that. even when i use the second method, however, i find that sometimes it will doesn’t work anyway. and on the contrary, with the first method, i can write something random, in a sort of stream of consciousness, and it turns out great. so with my poetry at least, i’ve given up control, and resolved to just keep writing.
how making
remember
when tired
that the morning
need is there
for you
to wake
sometimes
on time
i used to sit so
things felt
only contacted
out of place
like one leg
slung over
the other
sitting in a chair
looking cool
but only feeling
the leg pit
or the knee cap
of either leg
at once
and so worrying
that one leg
isn’t working
so not even
sitting cool
do i get a break
from my mania
open free
feeling
quite alright
after some time
in unconscious flight
woken with
a bounce
or a bump
and nothing at all
feeling closed
or impossible
quite yet
at night
not knowing
stumbling
in the dark
preferred
still
to knowing
to avoid
the fear
more than
the object of
at night
keeping lights
turned off
to avoid
a return
prematurely
to
the waking
world
lights
turned on
returning
to a seen world
that eyes
were grown
to survive in
little light
left over
long for
shadows
to recede
showing
more of
what there
is
to be seen
i see it so simple
what i can’t capture
with a camera
or painting
so try to capture
with a simple world
like simple
which crams
a castle
into a shoe box
in the meantime
meeting moments
that come and go
casually, often
enough so that
most space
has a great indifference
to the time
that washes over
less colors
with the lights down
so everything
is closer to black
conforming
and becoming one
until
a revolutionary
non-socialist
morning
when individual
color rights
will have
their day
looking up
seeing art
or head down
walking past
what’s there
either way
a lot of the time
it’s just how
the words sound
and not
what they mean
just like
it’s the light
and not
the object
jumping up
to avoid
a chip bag
blowing
in the wind
you might die
tomorrow
but what happens
if you act
as if you will
and then you don’t
give some of my
energy and love
to baby
and some
to my work
and even some
to strangers
remembering that
none of it
is mine to give
—i am returning it
to where
it came from
window drapes
like a dam
after a flood
in the morning
holding back
all that light
wanting in
to wake up
and start the day
meditation and poetry contradict because they both take you to the same place but with meditation you get there and keep going further whereas with poetry you get there and exclaim then try to take the meteorite flight back down to earth with the wonder in tow
with meditation
you get there
and keep going
whereas with poetry
you get there
and exclaim
then try to take
the meteorite flight
back down to earth
with the wonder in tow
don’t always
close your eyes
and go so
cerebral
open them
and find what
our primal senses
are more familiar
with understanding
sometimes
they are smooth
like the ocean
sounds
of cars going by
so i sit
on our rug
in the apartment
as if
i was on the beach
in the morning
meditating
listening
to mechanical waves
before
you know it
you’re moved
like driftwood
downstream
with all
the other
debris
that moves
with the river
to the same end
regardless
of where
you started
i woke up this morning
because i kept hearing
the dump truck outside;
it must be garbage day
walking
with a brown
grocery bag
in my right hand
i see another
of about
similar
height and build
and a grocery bag
also brown
in their right
i wonder
is there a mirror
up there
at the intersection
a blue
sky canvas
makes things
simple
and clear
what we have
down here
compared to
the simple sky
so you would say
a night’s day
never left from
no time before
still needs some
surety sent soon
in order to even
consider a noon
before a dusk
when it will end
as it does daily
seeing
my reflection
walking by
glass
storefront
windows
wondering
who is that
a beautiful city
even more beautiful
after you’ve been
away for a while
like the cathedral
unassuming
among victorians
stop
and go
stop
and go
at stop lights
in the morning
when
the stops
are almost
unnecessary
given
the few cars
up this early
except
for the speedster
that might
blow through
and ruin it
clear cold
misty morning
white white sky
seeming all to be
the same white
from a barely
risen sun
that shows some
of its light
but none
of its color
being in
whatever
you’re writing
so when
you forget
what to say
you can
look up
and listen
to what
it’s telling you
something about
having your head
under the faucet
and shower water
rinsing out
the shampoo
brings every thought
you’ve ever had
rushing forth
at once
fog clouds
over the city
like a pillow
with all
the feathers
pulled out
saved by routine
back in the city
settling into
what i know
not so chaotic
as vacation
waking up
each morning
with the full set
of possibilities
—refreshing
for the first
few days
then exhausting
and wanting
to get back
to what you know
on there
open wise
there’s not
much more
than
a closed mind
you’d be
surprised
contrary
to
the wide claim
in a dark room
noting the moonlight
through the blinds
that is normally
drowned out
by the ceiling light
some time ago
seemed like
things wouldn’t
ever change
like knowing someone
that looks different
over time
but you knew them
all along
so they look the same
went
all the way
out here
just
to come back
and see
what i was
seeing before
now
just a little
bit different
seeing
an old world
with new eyes
waiting
for the plane
to board
back
to the city
and take
a car
to the office
and resume
the life
i was living
before
like sleep
is the drug
that does it
between dreams
needing
to forget
one world
to see others
working
in the night
as long as
i am
breathing
working
creating
is what
it is
for me
to be
hands shaking
like businessmen
under sheets
juxtaposed
with bodies
interlaced
having a pleasure
doing business
sunburn sends
and peels away
part of an outside edge
that needs to be red
and let go
to reveal
a new shade of skin
showing summer warmth
looking up
from under sheets
longing for light
that won’t come
until the morning
lights wired
alongside
pipes with
water running
and rafters
barely sagging
a little more
each year
in a house
built to be
torn down
a phone in bed
is a complex thing
among simple sheets
but the human in bed
is complex too
like a bright light
that you look at suddenly
from darkness
and close your eyes
and look away
waiting for your eyes
to adjust
but still seeing
that scar of light
on the back of your eyelids
that is a symbol
of the actual light
you saw
but it is not
the actual light
it is just
the scarred memory
of your eyes
telling you what
you supposedly saw
and more
and more abstract
if you watch it
off in the one corner
of your vision
the edges softening
more and more
until what resembled
a lightbulb
in the ceiling
and then a circle
of light melts
into the general bright
of your vision
at large
as your eyes adjust
supposedly
just saying it
isn’t enough
when action
takes more
than an inhale
and curve
of your tongue
but rather
to spend time
that you only have
so much of
especially for
the sake
of another
is much more
than a few
uttered words
just needing a good sun nap
to forget everything i know
and fry my brain like an egg
so the art comes back into the void
from all around where it lies
in wait even when i think
it’s all gone but it’s really just
because i’ve been hard boiled
and in need of a scramble
letting salt
frothy foam
rip a green tide
brown in between
white capped
blue waves
so shallow
so far out
where the waves
can’t decide
how tall
to stand
one thing
after the other
pushed along
into the next
and the next
needing
more
and more
freeways are
too fast for me
flinging forward
hunks of metal
kept from
killing you
just by
painted on
white lines
two bodies
getting comfortable
together
like one body
i think about
screwy things
like nails
nailed into
the insides
of pipes
that touch
whatever
the insides
of the pipes
touch
like drinking
water and
anything else
that shouldn’t
get rusted
in the night
my poetic mind
is greased
without the corners
of the lighted world
to catch it
Sitting waiting seeing for it all to be written even though it is always written. All sensory inputs could be described with words. Some inputs we don’t have words for. Imagine looking out at a scene and being able to describe it perfectly with words. So much so that the person seeing the words could see the scene perfectly just as you see it. Or the same for a sound. Imagine being able to describe it with words so the person reading the words could hear the sound perfectly. I suppose that is why we have music. Which makes me think that there is an art best suited for each sense. Music for hearing, painting and drawing for seeing, dance for movement and feeling, culinary arts for tasting. But what sense then is writing for? For imagination? For mental capacity?
an abstract painting
painted right side up
turned left
and upside down
still right side up
the paint
on my fingers
juxtaposes
the mono-peachy
skin
quite nicely
there are only so many combinations of words, punctuation, and spacing. only so many letters in the alphabet. so the set of things that can possibly be written is finite. it is like our physical earth. there are only so many possible combinations of DNA. a presumably finite number of elements present on earth, combined in different ways. the only difference is that they are already all rendered and out there and the difficulty for an explorer is to go and find them. whereas the difficulty for a writer is that some writings, while possible, have not yet been written.
a building
in open sky
with itself
and no other
buildings
on its edges
allowed
to be like
an object
painted alone
on wide
open white
canvas
blurred colors come into vision
like the sliver on rings on fingers
and the green on leaves on trees
spinning around in the park
and the peach of fingers typing
on phone screens and blurry streaks
all of it like paint strokes with colors
that run and melt together
i see simple things
like a hand
grabbing a yellow rail
and a button
that says stop
on the bus
in the morning
packed with people
trying to relax
before work
one thing gets
just slightly off
and i wonder if
the whole world
has changed
and everything
i knew, was a lie
the light hits
the window frame
just right
so the red and green
guide traffic
in my dream
the whole bus shakes
riding over construction
unpatched bumps and
potholes in the road
rattling squeaking
like an earthquake
really more than
you would expect
like the whole thing
could fall apart
cars whoosh
by outside
the stop light
changes colors
in the window
the hardwood
stays put
for the most past
so one thing
in the world
stays the same
drunk a little
left in line
waiting for
i’m not sure
what just
comfortable
to stand here
otherwise
inappropriately
drunk, but
here in line
perfectly
in place
eyes closed
on the bus
feeling the inclines
and turns
stopping
counting stop lights
trying to guess
how far
and which stop
i need to open my eyes
and stand up
to get off
looking from one angle
and seeing no more beauty
so thinking of leaving
to find more elsewhere
then seeing from another angle
and finding abundant beauty
right where you found it
from the beginning
and so feeling foolish
like a boy with no loyalty
who can’t remember his promises
a little cheap art
that doesn’t mean much
but is still pleasant
enough to make
an economic invalid
worthwhile
i have to get
my worldview right
before i can make
art out of it
what shadows appear
when the lights are turned off
hidden before in a general bright
appearing now from
a more focused light
framing the doorway
from the streetlight
beneath the drape
ceiling showing light
passed through from
the bottom eighth
of the kitchen window
uncovered by drape
showing a triangular
section almost white
like a car headlight
shining at night
a pocket
opens up in time
like waiting in line
at the laundromat
watching the whites spin
hearing the machine hum
i wonder about
where the socks go
writing
what i feel
sometimes
results in
not understanding
what i wrote
when i read it
later on
delicate enough
to take
the right amount
and not more
and exacting
enough, to take
no less
i love art
so much
on the weekends
that some
sunday nights
i think i won’t
go to work
when i wake up
on monday
but then
soon remember
the yin
and the yang
the day
and the night
the dance
and the sleep
art is the leap
but there still
must be
the landing
and the takeoff
which must
go well
before
and after
the air time
that is art
and can go
just as it will
but money
and survival
and physics
and rules
and relationships
are still there
when you land
you read into words
too much
which is when
they mean more
than they were
meant to
limited as they are
they can only
be trusted
so far
to convey
what is trying
to be said
i write poems
between bus stops
because i know
there is nothing
else to do
during that time
i get overwhelmed
on both sides
thinking it bad
sometimes
and other times
thinking it good
as long as i don’t
go too far
in either direction
things get done
around the house
and i can’t remember
whether it was
me or baby
i feel things
and can’t decide
if their baby’s
feelings, or mine
i know i can
do something
but am probably
accounting for
baby’s abilities
rolling over in bed
and feeling with
my one leg
another leg
and not knowing
if it is my second
or baby’s
making dinner
i worry about
making for baby
what i wouldn’t
make for myself
deciding and
considering now
baby’s desires too
looking for cars
with two seats
and maybe three
one day
at the gallery
wanting to buy
expensive art
but having to
compromise
our artistic
preferences
for what we
can afford
for long last
does time pass
tentatively
taking on more
space spread
out over what
came before
sometimes i step
up onto a chair
just to get into
a new headspace
a little higher
you did a hard thing
which is getting
your first step
out there
and so now set
a course to continue
keeping on stepped
in the same
general direction
as progress
of some sort
is all that really matters
just to keep from
getting stale
and stagnant
bones crack
like gears turn
without grease
to creak on
playing the music
of age
when to stay
and when to
float away
to some-
thing new
how to tell
if it is written
and dug out
deep down
so fully explained
and all told
so there is nothing
more here
like an empty
gold mine
for a miner
or a dry glass
for a drinker
but wondering if
it is ever this way
for a writer
or if one thing
can really be written
over and over
and never
running out
of things to say
if you write
deep enough
creeping morning light
between the drapes
into the living room
brightening the edge
of the white rug
and putting a shimmer
on the hardwood floor
giving to my eyes
information for what
in the apartment
needs to be done
and pulling me out
from under-
neath the sheets
sleepy time tea
hot enough to
force a window
open to cool
the room from
hard to breathe
to open nose
inhale clear and
crisp enough to
stay under the
sheets silked over
with too much
i tell baby that
we should have
gotten the cotton
a cord hanging
from the shelf
unplugged
like a fishing line
looking to hook
an empty outlet
abstract rubbing
closed eye patterns
seeing shapes and colors
that remind and then melt
into memories and draw
the attention away
from eyelid backs
and drift off
where bone
raises skin
giving structure
to outward beauty
like fingers pressed
from the far side
of a bed sheet
little foot marks
on the stool
where she stood
higher
last night
framed by
the storefront light
coming in
through the window
holding the drape
pull string
twirling and
dancing
smiling at me
bus whirs outside
arms catch on wires
brakes let out a breath
rest at the stop for a second
eat a few passengers
regurgitate a few others
some stops are a big meal
swelling with a stomach full
until the stops downtown
provide some offloading relief
crawling all over the city
always demanded
and even chased after
until broken and then fixed
and put back on the schedule
born into a purpose
of making the city run on time
right after thinking
of nothing
then something
pops up
so thinking of it
for a while
until gradually
thinking one
after the other
before remembering
to think of nothing
back and forth
like this
until the somethings
grow shorter
and the nothing
takes over
keep with what exists already
wanting after not so many other
derivatives and replicas and slight variations
that may seem to please marginally for a second
but really just bleed a strong self into boundless life
either of which works well enough
unless you planned to do something by way of “I”
and risk forgetting you are part
of everything like a colony ant
while having a higher chance
of accolades for being something like a lion king
in the dark world
nothing scary
if remaining dark
only scare
for what comes
out of it
so dark forever
is not so bad
save what
the light might show
in the dark
sensing
by touch
i realize
it is the cause
of light
that i have
been writing
with my eyes
in the dark nights
open mouthed yawning
dreamed upon
days not yet
woken
i leaned back
and sighed
i felt so good
i forgot
i was standing
and almost
fell over
trying to
write the city
but mostly seeing
and so thinking
setting sun
on buildings
and faces of
people sidewalking
would be better
painted
store windows
show through
and out of
store windows
on the other side
so you can see
who’s coming
around the corner
simply seated
so enough
passes by
to keep me here
paying attention
the light
from between
a barely
open door
and its frame
cast upon
a carpet floor
in an empty
dark room
abstract yet
so defined
and clear
a light tea
actually quite bodied
pleasantly tasting
like more
than just water
and hot to boot
so great
to come into
a warm place
from the wind
reaching out
expecting to have
touched something
touching nothing
stretching farther
and still nothing
wondering if
there is anything
anymore
but really
just grasping
for the wall
in the dark
birds fly
in the apartment
blue door
window frame
between buildings
like a picture
the closest you get
to silence in the city
is sitting alone
in your apartment
and you can still hear
the air moving through
the ventilation system
at some points
i scratch my head
and wonder
how things have
ended up like this
and other times
clear as day
it makes
abounding sense
that things are
the way they are
on sunday morning
the roads are empty
and all the lights
turn green for us
as if i needed
to get where i’m going
any faster