There’s a ninja star embedded
in the arm chair, sitting in the open
wide garage. Every couple hundred
years we tear the cities down,
just to put them back the way
they were before.
All the empty places are slowly
filling. With, if nothing else,
the excess from the rest.
We spend our time just watching
how the light moves,
and expect it all to fall right into place.
We replace the things that we
don’t want to deal with.
Like we owe nothing to what got us
where we are. I feel around the dark
and find a dagger, and cut through
all the fabric to the star.
Teleporting Typewriter 