We’re held together

by the suspension

of most boundaries

No matter how distant

or polite we may be

behind our lenses,

we war with ourselves

to keep the dark things

quiet until someone

whispers “let go…”

and we reach for that

voice and the light

that sparkles

amid our deviance

Each time we wake,

there are storms

brewing by breakfast each morning

Usually, by the time I get to the bird house

at the zoo, my legs are ready to give way,

I am hot, feeling ungainly,

and I imagine all the peoples in the world

reduced to patterned chatter.

I realize I can’t add much more than a bird

to the scheme of things.

But I find them delicious.

I’m not impressed anymore.

It’s like my glasses are too scratched

to see anything but days filled

with the same rolling wheels fueled by

fried foods and angry newscasters.

A woman is called brave for wearing

an outfit that looks like 1980’s vomit

while a man looking online for refuge

hits the underside of his desk

with his cock. They’re both empty.

The air is strange and tastes like

burnt leaves. Are there any waterfalls left?

I’m injured, moving slower and I wonder

if I’ll ever return to my normal speed.

When I try to meditate, my essence

becomes all about fried chicken

and mashed potatoes- and oh Lord,

Texas Sheet Cake… please!

A little longer, I keep telling myself

but I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.

I’ve waited a long time to see the moon

and sometimes it seems

she’s been watching me

and maybe waiting for a reaction.

I don’t think she knows how thrilling

it is to learn her craters.

I already know I don’t measure up

but we can still dance to her light.

The hills at night almost demand it.