Fat-bottomed box of curated comfort,
folded as if awaiting a bespoke future
and not dystopian afternoons
of running amok, grabbing more caffeine,
and praying for peace and gaberdine.

I don’t think I want a place
where gaunt doctors tell me I am inferior,
filthy teens have creepily perfect teeth,
and eyelashes are made of millipedes.
Let me choose my vice.

Wolfe was more right than Woolfe
because I want to go home but it’s like
a smoky Mordor, with fewer gates
and lemonade for all. I dislike lemonade.
I do want to matter to somebody too.

It’s an obvious Tuesday, no calendar
is needed to define the restlessness
inherent amid doomscrollers marking posts
of cat memes, nail art, and places
that don’t exist. Let’s make somewhere new.

Receptors fluttering /tingling
but with a bit of overload,
almost numb but for a sense
of feeling; an echo of events
that may or may not have happened.
Tightening laces along the feet and back,
taking things on the tongue
while twirling dancers cavort across
parking lots full of weeds and screamers.

What is your fetish, an old woman once
asked me near a van of crazies.
I only smiled. She likes flickering streetlamps
while her husband likes really rounded
asses straining beneath polyester.
I once knew a boy who liked toes
and a girl who liked quarter-filled
water beds- to feel like tide pools
even in a Pennsylvania winter.

Someone outlawed freak shows
in theory. Even boardwalks are cleaner now
and the seamiest stuff is stuffed
into gifs for hard-working perverts,
and cartoons are hyper realistic
which I think defeats the purpose.
There aren’t any heroes and gardens
are being bombarded by storms.
We could find our way if there was one.

I never thought days could be
elastic or sticky
but I have never had a plan
for tomorrow,
though I worry a hell of a lot
about purpose
and belonging and loneliness
which seemed a purgatory
for a little girl who loved meadows.
There is no judgement among weeds.
Grown up and itchy,
the days are filled with enough minutiae
to make a rat scoff
finding mirth only when beholding art
or fitting enough trivia together
to feel learned.
I trip over my own feet sometimes.

A universe spinning at the tips
of my fingers just within reach
of today, almost caught up
to where “supposed to” and “wants to”
meet and where blooms are shaped
like fuzzy stars or sugar cookies.

Choosing a measured walk
to give my aches a breather,
wondering where the dancer in me went.

The way time curls
like trees in wind, like a song I keep singing.
I am awake and dreaming.

I like shapes
of birds in flight
and the way
skies turn with color
as daylight passes
and how shadows
fall over me and hills
in a living canvas.