The drywall smelled like ash, but it was new.
T.V. static headaches covered up the words
we were all supposed to nod along with.
Limitless people all confined by the ordinary
that is always the subject of a plan
to put as much space between us as possible.
Compare how safe you are, how free from
having to make it up as you go because
the answers only come with second guesses.
Somewhere there is a moldy cave where
it’s always cold and there is someone growing
old with every breaking wave that staves off
all the outside hands that pull you to your knees.
The old ironic paintings are now the landscape.
Burning towers become our triumphs not
There is someone with their face against
their palms trying to picture a way out of this
until like all the rest they wander aimless
through the hollow streets where there is
someone selling something just for you.