how do you get the taste of foolishness off the tongue?
the single window opens into the confines of the airshaft. it floods the room with uncertainty. the air is stagnant, listless. the core of this beast is silent. the core of my beast is cacophony.
for lunch I shall eat marshmallows and melancholia
conflicted as the emotional editor-in-chief: what words are honey, what words are blades.
veiled words balance ambiguity with expression while the impetus to express is explored.
a momentous occasion sparked a deluge
it’s times like these, sitting on the train discomforted by the smell of an unwashed body, that i just write. write what comes through my thumbs to distract me from the wet warmth on my left and the cool draft on my right. the smell subsided, a perk of the frequent stops of this local train.
i feel trapped by time, knowing that each observation is fleeting and will eventually disappear into the recesses of my mind.
i walked past a trio of nuns on 142nd street. it was a moment i captured with the camera in my mind. they huddled around the open hood of an old ford taurus, their cool blue fabrics draping to the ground, punctuated by sterile white habits.
they inspected the oil dip closely, but i will never know the result, for i had to turn my head to the future and leave that moment in the past.
beige. bland. bougie. blah.
i am unsure whether the snake kissed me or tasted me. i am quite sure i hated it.
five or six within one. within just one. within just one fleshy shell. through the tunnel we travel, we and i. flashing lights and mechanical rumblings without, sporadic lights and primordial rumblings within. we are i. he sees and she tastes. he hears and they speak. within one fleshy shell, thin enough to rip, engineered to contain.
a line of guidance rolls thinly beneath the moss
i don’t want this soup to end; it’s keeping me company, here to occupy my time and once gone, i go back to reality.
there was a verdant chasm cloaked in mystery, and the sounds reverberated. new sounds. life sounds. my life had changed sound and the tune was occasionally unrecognizable. the rolling fog presented a more accurate reflection than my face, and inward i looked. and look. simultaneously choking and liberated, like the verdant jungle below, waiting to catch my soul.
i crunch on the mirrored water and shatter my teeth on your ego
a large scoop of infinity sits in my ice cream bowl and im searching for my spoon
i am sitting here, waiting for my juice. father mancini, written in white on institutional green backing, looks down.
a real floof of a dog is making its crippled owner scoop its poo. she’s in an electric scooter.
bob is demanding that we play some reggae music. i second.
the stories of the sidewalks, the impressions of erosion and discarded memories. i see one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight cigarette butts.
i realize my juice is probably ready.
a future shadow casts current doubt
but fortune cookies lie
the night is progressing without me. redundancies of activities have diluted motivation and along the water i wander yet again. slicing my thoughts with no mercy and reassembling. anchors are lovely for a soak but exploration must follow. and lead.
the gills of your lilac lungs wilt
unsilent, unrequited while doped up on diaphanous desire
lurid lighting illuminates the landscape of the orchid. crackling and cackling, flaming flower competes with the moon for praise, blazing and dazing, robust and blue a moment or two. languid and lush, the blush rush of blood speckles upon gold slopes while i careen into full control in a tilted and jilted desert. glowing ocher dunes glisten their glow upon sharp shards of a crimson cactus embrace, vacillating from divine to macabre.
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