We already lost this unbearable race.

Overanalyzed and unverified

numbers chased us through

twisted tinted mazes,

painted eyes melt into blue lights

destroying our shape

from head-

to toe.

Self-rejected

flaws fall insight.

We search—we beg

for meaning

In the shallow depths of a glass lens.

Frozen like statues—

Heads titled – bodies twisted

Hollow games—

Lonely friends and monuments.

We’re perfectly aesthetic

social butterflies. Through empty

rooms we fluttered,

electronic connections—

barely touched

Anything.

Refreshed feed

never felt complete.

300 likes and 30 comments

fill our hollow gaps.

March 31, 2020

Something abstract,

immaterial assumption

bursting breathing

in color.

Rainbow eyes.

Wicked psyche

and the curvature of ink blots.

Associative breath in the ether

makes a murderer of you or I

or some passersby

on a street corner.

Breathe me into essence

or some feint vestige

of reality.

Whisper the world

to sleep.

Inhale lest

you asphyxiate.

Unsteady hand

of a jitterbug.

Jitter jitter and

fritter away

all that time you made.

Damn we’ve got a great gig going.

And that eternal eclipse

mutes the sky and

rainbow eyes.

I see the vague portrait of a butterfly

up here in the ink awry.

1942 and they decided

to lobotomize me for it.

Ain’t that crazy.

Bright tinted giggles build up and crack into sunlight glows. 

Squinting forward, our delicate fingers tightly clutching metal chains.

We bend and straighten our little legs,

begging the recess bell not to ring and

pushing ourselves into the bright sky.

The distant treetops wave at us

Midair, shrieks of joy explode from our throats.

The polished middle school kids curse between words,

glaring at us up and down.

We try our best smudge and blend, 

but crowded classrooms fill with sharp chatter

and reverted eyes; suffocating us whole.

Whispers travel and break into chains.

Jeers multiply and tangle us in knots.

Our changing reflections shatter emptily.

In our khaki pants, we stock grocery store shelves,

between beaming rushes

and blushing laughs,

ignoring the blur of fluorescent lit aisles. 

Exhausted from endless shifts

we fall into each other’s casual gestures. 

Our brains releasing golden magic

with each perfectly formed sentence.

His soul...

Remnants of twisted pine 

Cling to sticky fingers like ash

Stains on white t-shirts.

Kiss the plant with flames and

Swallow its smoky soul!

Maybe your skin will singe


And you’ll both simmer, 

But you can’t water cacti 

With cooking wine

And expect flowers to flourish. 

I dreamt I was a street sweeper;

I didn’t like it that much. 

A trashcan tumbled down 

A flight of concrete steps
And told me, “I’m the bin,

But you’re the waste.”

I was late to work,

Going top speed,

Godspeed, 

Passing empty receptacles 

And barrels of guck. 

I’m a streetsweeper,

No, a bartender,

No, I don’t have a job,

I’m a quarter spinning 

On a cloth tabletop,

And somehow I never topple. 

Cafe at night

Steel cages rattle

Slam the stones

Over every store

Each painted pretty

in a different flavor of graffiti

Like a theater wait

And hush our voices

The sun drops and

Fingers of light recede

Lingering in the old town

Rainbow hues fade from the city’s crown jewel

But deep in the streets the embers remain

Sun baked tiles grow cool in streetlight glow

Shadows toss up across wrought stone facades

And lamps bathe the bustle in spotlights,

The cobblestone streets a new stage, and night’s curtains drawn wide

Burst of song drift around corners from street performers

And squalls of laughter spill into the alleys like beer running in the cracks

Decorations of thousands of crenellated lights erupt across the street

Draping the city in every color, like a splendid gown awash with neon

Through the main strip people pack and pearls of revelry come from every restaurant

Blood pumping through a dancer’s veins, giving life to the old bones of th...

Hickies

Sometimes I miss

The wine colored stains you left on my skin

As my neck cringes in protest

The blood vessels on my collar bones

Exploding

Leaving violet and violent galaxies across my chest

As I watch the purple fade to yellow

Only to fade back into my bones

Fingers tracing where my bruises once were

As if they were the last I had of you

But then again

What kind of a grown man

Still gives hickies

Who is the owner of that black wig floating around in my dream?

Is it the old woman,

who always walks in my store,

wearing spaghetti stained tee-shirts,

who skids worn out Chinatown slippers

down linoleum isles,

and fills her basket

with velveeta and cream?

Is it that young woman on the subway

who nurses a child in one arm,

and cradles laundry in the other,

who worries a thread on a wool knit sweater

unraveling at the seam?

Is it Gianni’s wife

who waters the petunias each morning

in her pink satin nightgown

who warms her body

on the edge of a sunbeam?

No, no, I’m glad you called,

I actually wanted to reach out to you.

I don’t remember that, but I saw him the

Other day, I motioned but he didn’t see, what a dick, right.

No, keep going, I - No I interrupt - I’m loud, it’s a problem.

It’s just that I smelled a waft of some old fragrance a couple days ago.

Yeah, like the smells that trigger some nostalgic hallucination,

Except I wasn’t tripping, I was just smelling.

Honestly it kind of had that moldy, sarcophagus odor.

Yeah I really don’t think bigfoot’s dick would smell like this.

Okay, then yeah depending on bigfoot’s game I guess.

Yeah if he’s got big feet - but anyway I remembered an image with it. 

It’s from a movie, but obviously an old one - in color. 

Some suit playing guitar in a chair - a man - and when I thought of it,

I felt awful. Like the feeling when a teacher yells at you as a kid.

No, worse. Nah we Jews always knew Santa wasn’t real. 

Okay, like as if I had forgot some...

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