i.
In the park
In the sun
In the morning
in the blue
In the diminishing
In the flame red rise
On the grounds
On a bench
On time
On healthy males
On the road
On the butter of others
On for what it isn’t
Off the people’s path
Off the radar, regaled & too much
Off on my own; most unlike
Off to where contortion mirrors the ornament
Off the bus
Off & feeling big enough
Off out in the mood held on
Out and curtailed
Out in the city and cement
Out of my mind
Out to surprise my fidelity
Out of used, of ugh
Out of money
Out of time
ii.
“these lines look like something I dreamt about” - “less the more I think about her” - “and the fuck you said it all” - “of course you could always just take it off” - “for fear of being interesting” - “fall into the wrong hands of the wrong somebody” - “you do have to wear your pajamas and bathrobe” - “just deck the whole place out in the theme” - “thank you for pointing us in the wrong direction, asshole” - “I don’t feel the need to bring my own, but I probably should” - “I only really like concerts when I know the words to every song” - “he’s the one who commands” - “I’ve experienced interstate road trips” - “the bridge between warm deviled eggs and dry ham” - “hot bird” - “gimme the same numbers as yesterday” - “since I live alone, I wanted something cool to bring to the apartment” - “I like beer a lot” - “they capture that painful feeling” - “it’s wacky and has a great gift shop” - “don’t like Picasso. Period.” - “it’s the nostalgia I had to avoid” - “he always calls me passive-aggressive, but he’s wrong, I’m just curious” - “some songs are hard to improve, but I keep trying” - “just as soon as they get their liquor license” - “it’s just a pile of gnarly crispy fish” - “I hate being undermined by capitalism” - “he said so” - “I’m feeling nostalgic for when I was two” - “it’s gradual like getting grey” - “let’s prove him wrong” - “I don’t believe in anymore anymore”
iv.
this city never sleeps and taking pills to sleep making sleeping seem stupid since not wanting to do it always wanting to do it all the time and how many times do you forget you said that that thing that others said were stupid because not because you said them or that they think you’re stupid but because the thing you said was stupid to begin with and you just want to go to sleep and forget that dinner where you threw up your fish and pasta and one too many drinks and then decided it best to fall the fuck down realizing that you probably should go to bed now that you think about it and you do but the city all the cities never sleep they’re still cities and you’re still you only sleeping
vi.
The deeper
the/other
th(is) city
tempers
sounds like
sounds like “_____”
((or))
on the street
stricken
does society make it tougher
th(an
the tougher steaks on the other plates?
iii.
now not holding you (responsible)
vii.
If Wittgenstein’s explanations come to an end somewhere, where is that end, where on the body twist written? In the city? Out in the country? If my brunch eggs are radically rotten, whom do I accost blame? The restaurant? The waitress? The chef? The market from which the eggs were bought? The farmer who owns the chicken? The chicken herself?
There tend to be fewer people to blame in the city. There are more thinning blames to go around - essential qualities written by half.
And eventually, explanations just vanish, not needing to be there to begin with.
v.
That city’s sidewalks bleed piss and moans. The crazy kant come filled at the train stop. Location like to fucked. They love the penetration of privacy. The city’s getting bigger. You can barely be private in the country, someone’s always looking up your skirt. You show your filth in the city. rubbing it raw until it grows into the other filth around you and it’s no longer filthy, yes, it’s town. That the pages of the book have never been cut, so it’s whole. Representational of letting yourself go blank. The obvious, as a burden, as a secret shame everyone already knows it’s so obvious and it makes you feel oblivious to it. They’re talking in the bars again about betting on the end. They’re ham-fisted and look lovely on my body. What’s a lady to do, the crude and cumbersome spectacle of the lasting bits? The parts that didn’t go to the gutter of the city udder. I milk that portion to shreds and come up with ashen hands. Fill the watering cans with pussy-willows, they look nice on the table, in my mouth. My starlets don’t need me to labiate, fully. Inclined and close above the head. How the skies punish this city. Sepia quick and torn, a bitter furnace for our pinkness. The stuttering mister playing in the dark. Approved qualifications come in the spam account. There is no you there, so little privacy. Our names repeated ad nauseum as if existed until the inevitable delete. To partition your branches like self-analysis made mad. The official selection. Spending forever watching it be 8:34 and thinking “this is temporary, but this will repeat itself” and knowing exactly when that will happen but not knowing how long it will feel like. Knowing how something will happen, but not how, is living like a person. Still, some things never happen in this city. Some things remain together regardless of light. Beneath the surface of boy’s dreams, the private ones, lies the lies of the evening dampness. I’ve made a quorum for my hopes in the backs of taxis. The rancid gusts in an age of august groveling. The scaffolding only makes things worse. Their silly pricks only bellowing. On the train, off the train, the rumble rambles in it’s own port. The pigeon stares at you with it’s one filthy eye. It drops its business on your business, bruising you blue (white). Staying the same blue, but here. But why both with diagnosis at all, it’s happening. This city ages beyond you. That pigeon just shat on your back. They make this life so it’s like purchasing water. You were on your way to a seaside town. You were concerned about the bigger reflectors. Let’s start over. You were on your way to a seaside town.
