There’s so much emptiness here
Like everyone is afraid they’ll be
swallowed alive
and they won’t be crumpled or torn,
just gone--
and they are more afraid that they won’t
mind

So they pace like intoxicated flies
feeding on their own dead skin,
and drag their bodies into this
sordid abyss
to spin around until they vomit--
and even then, can they rest?

Not when there are points,
like dazzling eyesores,
that must be obtained, but
you cannot hold them in between
your fingers--
they’re intangible
and they get their way before
you ever can

and so you let the points win
because you are tired and
wish that some anger would be your puppeteer
and suspend you
but you succumb anyway

They can study you as you
lay on the floor
but you’ve had your damned fill of
analogous conversations
meant to represent your thoughts
but failing somehow

and you hung up your things when
you were a child,
but older, you lay them to
rest on the poppyseed floor;
you’re
tired