We live off what is bad for us.
The taste of tar while driving
my old car across a region,
I’ve been hanging in forever.
I’m okay with going home early,
or never really going out at all,
since there are days worth what
waits quietly alone.
The trailer park is filled with porch swings
no one uses and old rusted
bikes left around by kids who grew up
long ago, and one faint footprint
by the forest full of fog.
She waits for him to get home
by the window while her cat
is raking claws against
the stomach of a rabbit
in the backyard where it hunts
like it was meant to.
Bury me under this picnic table
where the world will never find me.
I want to deal in overheard conversations
amongst other ghosts who died
in ways you wouldn’t want to know about,
and people eating lunch outside for once.
I put my hand into the pulsing gears
of how the clouds move, in the most vast
view of how it all could work, and didn’t hurt.
Well, it was painful I suppose like when
your nose bleeds well before you ever notice.
I stand for all the points made by the pointless
in this fortress made of human hands
all moving towards the chords
that make the song ring over everything
so loud the phantom faded fall apart.