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periodicals
newspapers full of fading people
cities delicately reimagined as thieves
blemished, blurred by oily fingers
we all end up alone
unable to see the eyes in front of us
but if you leave, it’ll be even worse than alone
and I’ll have no one to follow during my midnight constitutionals in the park
slowly realizing that we’re all ultimately strangers to each other
strange, strongheaded
whispers that open windows
another scar appears on my arm
the one I use to write
from where I helped you move your couch
the one we need in order to continue fucking
the only worthwhile way to spend the day
too long, too much
I read, the
newspapers full of fading people
I worry that this article will last another thirty years
and I’ll be sitting here, a
faux intellectual pretending middle class
dilettantish but insured
reading what to make of another morning
waiting for my dinner drink
thinking of ways, for hushful wagging decades now,
of how to kill the man that smudged us
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