Pushed Into The Margins Of Your Life

The past is an archive we build around ourselves.

I have no place.

I need people.

Hurt people

hurt,

people.

I am totally in love with

everyone right now, but

there is no one that I love

enough that I feel blinded

by them.

My arms tied behind my back for them.

As I am writing this

I want to make it so you are here

with me right now.

I change the time of my

clock to whatever

city you are in.

Are you here?

My room smells like chocolate.

You should let me brush your teeth.

You should get in bed with me. 

I feel like I’m on the edge of something.

Please get me out of here.

But first, get into bed with me.

We Are The Cause Of Our Own Illnesses

It’s October and the sprinklers

are on full blast

watering medians

full of concrete, maybe hoping

the infrastructure will overflow

onto the streets,

puking up the sewers

with twisted pipes

stretching out to choke

all the miniature

manicured dogs, the

women riding to the

gym with a Barney’s bag

dangling

from each handlebar.

Our excesses are malignant,

crumbling while

destroying and

pleading the whole time. 

A couple sitting at a

restaurant

drinking

white wine,

blinking into the

sun. One lifting

a baby into the

air, the other

raising an iPad to

block out the light.