gliding across hard pavement.
What trace do we leave?
145
Here is my story:
a battle against myself,
with no clear victor.
Architecture tour
under relentless sunshine
renders me speechless.
Did you pick on me
knowing I would dwell on it
years later? Fuck you.
I'm always tired.
Always, all ways, I'm tired.
I tire of tired.
Alone at a show.
Implore the opening band:
Start. Please start. Please start.
150
Wheelchair-bound man laughs,
and I want to laugh like him:
a joyous cackle.
Sick, sad, tight stomach
and a wish to disappear
into the darkness.
Battered flock of geese,
aloft within a snowstorm.
Indifferent sky.
White earth and white sky.
Vast and bright, undulating.
Life hidden below.
Princeton, Illinois
has big fat lazy snowflakes
that melt against trains.
155
"I know what I mean!"
Drunk man rants about space flight.
We are rapt, captive.
Earmuffs, mittens, scarf,
sweater, jacket, boots, socks, and
jeans with gaping holes.
Full of falafel
and bored with all the people.
I am going home.
These dirty snowdrifts
look post-apocalyptic:
ruined human muck.
Hunt for easy prey
and the quality drops down.
Aim too high, and starve.
160
Girls who read Robbins
are probably smart and fun.
What to talk about?
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