an interesting shift

me alex and david with the miami accent

sitting around on our shift

talking about string theory and black holes and the like

and david

always saying like...

and i say i dont want to anymore.

bend your mind backward and forward like those

worm holes.

id rather talk about things that make sense

when i realize you can turn anything into a philosophical mystery

the great inquisition of being

so we talked a while

all the while

im drifitng in and out of it

pseudophedrine always sucks it out of me

and everyone is so ready to go. eight sharp.

the building is closed.

but i get here and release there is so much less to do

and i dont get paid to stare at the eggshell finished walls

of my empty living room.

poppies.

graves cloaked in antiquity

and the poppies.

for some reason i feel a burning

a swelling

trace over the etchings on the grave of helen

who died in 1843

she was only seventeen.

for some reason

this is personal to me.

feeling the limestone

look to my feet knowing only 6 feet below

are her bones.

and from this spot

my field of vision grows

looking through a fisheye lens

its endless

the dead. a crop of bones and stone.

how sad that no one visits her anymore

Helen.

i hope

sincerely

there is more than this.

an old peice that feels new

What does It feel like?...
I always know when It’s coming.
I am a flounder on the other side
There’s a fisherman tugging
and I’m taking a Nosedive in Reverse.
The Hook is unforgiving, defying Gravity in the upward haul.
Ripping through the roof of my mouth.
I can’t discern what the Iron Taste belongs to-
the Hook- or my Own blood?
Now the nasal cavity stings-
even after that Bastard cuts the elusive string
and the tension recedes-
the Hook remains here.
(And I haven’t had my Tetanus shot
in the last ten years.)
It’s like an intricate way of dying
I always know when It’s coming.
It feels like going to the dentist knowing you have a cavity…
waiting in that rubber scented room where there is the Segregation of Teeth.
The Rotted and the Manicured. It will never be fair.
But the feeling, It’s that first shot of Novocain.
A needle tunneling through that pink membrane-
The Pain.
But you still have ghostly sensations, Slightly.
It’s unnerving.
I always know when It’s coming.
Starts out with symptoms that imitate
the Ascent of a roller coaster.
at the apex of the ride…
you’re pitched downward and It swallows you at 80 miles an hour.
And even though you knew, you KNEW It was coming
It hits you like a badly wallpapered bathroom.
It feels like driving past a wreck.
The inclination to stare steers your attention away from the yellow lines.
There’s screaming but its Just You in the car…
And there It is- the feeling.
(realizing it’s your own voice.)
Somehow you are sitting on the curb
Barefoot and Confused and this Wreck is You.
But what it feels like, the feeling, is finding out
that in the other tangled metal, 4 kids Died.
But you were Fine.
What does it feel like?
Shit, I dunno. It’s life.

titrations and cars that crap out on you.

I dont understand why a sophomore in highschool needs to know how to perform a liquid titration
or any kind of titration for that matter
or how to calculate the velocity of the car that broke down 5 weeks ago
on an afternoon drive
So damn hot, sitting in the car that wouldn't start
with the check engine light that Ive grown accustomed to
with the taps on the window from the highway patrol
who want to charge me an arm and a leg to get my car off that
rush hour time on I95. So many times ive made that drive
today I am stopped at exit 22.
an act of god, or inherent risk of activity
put my car out of comission on that shoulder where he met me
religiously devoted in a way i dont appreciate enough
brought me ice water and a check book
ill never appreciate him enough.
i dont want to make that sunday drive
8am to be guarenteed on time
miami will never be a destination i love as much as this one

plexiglass walls divide us all

Sometimes it doesn’t matter how nice you are or how many favors you do. It wont change them. They don’t care if you tiptoe around them or if you confront them with kindness, so much over the top kindness, in their face so close your trying to breath in oxygen but all you get is their exhalations, that’s all you ever get. Their exxxhalations.

So close that catholic school teachers would snap your knuckles and pry a bible in the gap to remind you about distance and sexuality not kindness or closeness or any of the ness’es that are necessary for happiness.

The edges of that weathered book are facing you and suddenly you have a nose bleed from the papercuts you acquired from his book and youre so close that the droplets of blood shiver and sliver down in streaks but it isn’t bright red like one blood is oxidized, its black from their exhalations of barren air.

And you get to wondering if it will ever change and so you dare to breathe out, because most of the time you just hold your breath and bow your head but today, today you breathe out and fog is returned to your face

so you reach up to touch it and theres a wall of plexiglass and it’s the cheap kind and you don’t know how or why its there, but you cant get past it you never will and so you shirk away into the room with the noise cancellation fan to pretend your alone because that’s how it feels on this side of the plastic.

how are you so sure spring follows winter?

so much of life is barren and today im afraid that this nothingness is all there is.

the assumption that these branches will green again is alot like believing well all go to heaven.

im not sure if i can do this

wandering

im sick of being alone.

turn to my [pill]ow.

turn and turn and turn and

when will this kick in?

and

sleet
rain
snow
wind
sun
clouds

im feeling weathered.


ice.