clxv. it’s just stupid

the sky is filled with envious stars. you are the brighter one.

clxiv. sphere

it’s not a ufo. it’s not some kind of modern periscope. it’s not a second moon over the high rise. it’s just my shaved head peeking through the window.

clxiii. embargo

someone attempting to break through to you with a threshold number of times, over the air where it can then take a variety of actions. locking everything up. all of it.

clxii. filth

maybe i shook too many unclean hands.

clxi. the broken clock is like a psalm

i like for sunday to go real, real slow, like a deaf-mute clock from the 60’s, silently stuttering on the wall, or like you on top before the coming goes.

clx. missed calls

you always ring me up with the same non-expression. ring, ring, ring. ring, rang, rung. not even a wink. not even a smirk. not even the latest weather report.

clix. this is where it happened

you are a depression on an unmade bed that is still warm.

clviii. i’ve known rivers

i thought you were looking for an explanation of the miscommunication between cat- and an- ions.

clvii. don’t make me start over

a blank tv screen screeching for a dial to be turned and a spilled stain on its cords. there are eyes watching but nobody talking. shadows graze that glare on the screen and a heart is beating inside it.

clvi. “it’s nothing.”

yes, i’ve heard. nothing that concerns me. i should just leave it alone. but i want to know if that nothing which you speak of has something to do with those cuts on your lovely flesh.