if I look out the window I can see myself, floating with the man who perches on the moon’s point
I’m performing a ballet at his feet, suspended in harmony with gases and light refractions that keep baggy-eyed kids raking their hands through their hair
back where I used to be
(not that I can call it home)
I’m choking on silence, but on that alone
I spy blurring bits of rainforests when I let my head fall forward
the pressure is building, but in mindless stupor, I still smile
the floor is soft here, genial






























I’m pulled back to this pitfall and fall out of bliss
I am a piece of machinery, I am a Christmas gift
built with winding gears and spinning wheels and cogs like entwined fingers
(things I shouldn’t know about, things I’ll soon forget)
I move fluidly through every second, playing games in my head as my heartbeats flood over the constant drone of the humdrum
how few words can I speak to get by
how little skin must brush my own
I draw stick figures of girls with their hair full of body and their bodies full of nothing
wondering behind a waterfall of curls
and an illusion of tight-lipped nonchalance
which lemming hasn't whispered about a friend today
the sardine can halls make me feel ill
I silently pray that I’ll suffocate soon

clawing the walls of the rut, dirt catches between my fingernails
the tile is icy beneath my bare feet
rolling spheres in their pretty plastic packaging crack together like BB bullets
I throw my head backwards and the air dies
with any luck I’ll follow
or float, filled with helium, drifting back to my whimsy again