Sometimes my thoughts get louder
than the train that I am waiting for.
I bet you get this a lot, don’t you,
people you don’t see offering you things
you don’t need.
So what is it that I have to offer?
Sadly I can only bring you this,
talk on the surface of glass,
but when I lay it down correctly
it can sing or play the banjo,
or fire bullets through the windshield of a truck.
I’m fine with the margins
they smell like alcohol
and coffee in the mornings.
I don’t partake in either
when I’m awake with others
trying to survive.
I talk less now having dug
so many graves with just
the opening and closing
of my jaw.
In fact I barely talk at all,
go figure.
It is possible to forget who you are on purpose.
The tangle tree is taking what belongs
to it by shading where I stand today and wait.
It is possible to hate the things you care about.
A falcon drops a sunfish just as charity
for some wolf cubs who no longer
have a mother.
It is possible to never stay away.
There’s an ice cube in a water bottle
in the front seat of a car,
and as it sits there, melting hopelessly,
it’s not afraid of mixing in at all.
Teleporting Typewriter 