I don’t give a fuck about anything.
Not since the sound started ringing
perpetually in my ears.
It makes my stomach sick to listen,
but I’m afraid of what’s behind the lower volume.
You pulled on the drawstrings
that came out of my hood,
making the fabric tight around my neck.
I tell you all my secrets and
you relay them with great efficiency
to everyone else.
Broken down cars and dead birds
line all the roadways here, and
as I drive by I see you scooping
their corpses into plastic bags
that wave in the wind
like dark ghosts.
On your way home you give yourself
the present of green dust wrapped
in off white paper,
and I join you there at the sunset.
you inhale the fumes and tell me
you wish you could stand under
the weight of our glowing star and
keep it where it was forever.
I don’t like to be the person
to tell people that their dreams
are impossible,
so I don’t, and I watch you
raise your arms above your head.
Teleporting Typewriter 