I should call someone.
... but then all the inertia of all that
flickering shadows, that kind of sparkle as they pass
And sometimes figures,
and sometimes the never-fucking-ending alien-puzzle dreams.
i should call someone,
go to the doctor so they can give me pills
but the only person I feel comfortable enough to call,
I'd rather have sex with,
do drugs,
dance in a sweaty warehouse with
hangout with people that come off as aliens.
Or gods on a good one,
or any iteration of the inbetween
I should call someone—
but when they pick up I'll want to hear about *their* day
I'll want to know what *they’re* doing
and I would want to bring any of this up
and ill miss them
and wish they were here
to fawn over my lilies
as the alarming harmlessness
of skittering domestic insects
and I wonder, if this is how my brother felt from the siezures
where he like, gnawed his tongue into meat
and ran his car off the road
or are they gathering to make contact, again.
Which is always, insightful.
But curiously, never helpful.
or is it just my mind unraveling—
after years of this unachievable narrative
of time, substance and leaded water
have run their course
and all of it in the face of the child rapist,
which seems more pressing
as the quality of our life unravels
in a way that makes bloodshed and gunfire seem, reasonable
I should call someone,
i have been in solitude for a long-time
living alone in crowds
Alone with plants
alone with this, mind.
and there is one less call to be made,
and i feel it acutely, when wrapping my tools to fit my hands
i feel it in the hopeful fun of buying dog-toys,
as if being kind to nature is its own fulfillment
I hope you sleep well, where nearby firearms can’t awaken you in the night
where the scarred and filthy, shirtless urchins
shuffle along the road
their metal-filled shopping carts laden with all manner of import
in the ritualized escape attempt for which drugs hold the key
How derogatory this all seems
the howl of the passing trains
when gazing upon the sloppy balter of lilies
resting in voluptuous sexuality
their bodies observably abused from the hail
and yearning in the summer heat.
as if everything culminates into disassociation
interdependence and substance and desire
meld into a currency beyond apprehension
in a pursuit hopeful to numb the incessant feeling of petals
being shredded in the rain
