I’m wearing my black leather jacket
and reading Void Magazine.
An ATM at the edge of a void
leads to an infinite line of ATMs
stretching through space-time.
A rose planted on the edge of a void
drifts into it one petal at a time, forever.
Beauty becomes a long red drip.
Vaping at the edge of a void
feels like being attacked by drones
made of nothing,
loosed by no one.
Buildings swirl round me.
Little twinkling lights. The sound perhaps of a duck, hiking up through the clouds.
Someone’s strangling you. You’re face down, searching for scraps. Shaking in a ditch, alone in a filthy motel.
A couple of philosophers crouched in a circle drinking coconuts through their bald, old straws.
You can fight. You can train.
You will get broken.
There’s no going back.
Your mouth opens.
In any festered heart, from a whore, bastard, child, there start no questions, only pain, pet upon till the act becomes an addiction. There is no wet spot worth the entering of labor. Nothing really answers that pinch and its attendant procedural. Humanity’s systems quack wide, anally, regardless, through a lucre mesh, through a status quo theology via paycheck, via slow cremation.
Red Cardigan, half bottle of ketchup, “on the
fridge door next to the ice pack blow up doll”
& browsing for research chemicals
with a half chub
& getting ready to tell a guy I wouldn’t
Agnes Varda him
& raw dogging a monolith surrounded
by crows telling me to chill out
This is the time for Airbnb hosts to
aggregate cumstains, the next big thing
I bump into you at a bowling alley turned grocery shop
I compliment your unique style of graphic t-shirt
I realign the mechanic assemblages under an Outback Steakhouse
The centipede emerges from a fog of incense.
As he crawls out of the kitchen into the living room, a beaded curtain clacks around each segment of his back as he wedges himself snugly under the sectional. Jostling his roommates, he gets comfortable.
They would complain, but he pays an equal share of the rent and doesn’t need a bedroom, giving them space for a studio.
These men don’t, however, strike the centipede as being as clever as his old friends. When he critiques their work, they sheepishly stare at their feet: “Man, we’re just trying to live.”
Nostalgic, the centipede hitches a ride toward the penitentiary. A trucker leaves him halfway to his destination. As he waits for another knight of the highway, he scours the ground looking for some small excess that has spilled from the cups of passing commuters who have worn a path between the convenience store and the gas pumps. Once he could count on chewing cotton filters of cigarettes butts, but now it is just a matter of fruitlessly licking cement.