I remember the night I met you
We sat on the porch and smoked cigarettes
I asked you about music
We understood each other right then
Today, thinking of you, I remember that life can be war
Unrelenting
Crueler than humans one by one
It’s an onslaught, unforgiving
You knew despair, you told me
You were a songwriter
In this dream, we are all together. It’s December and I miss you. I am not going to believe I won’t see you.
Tonight, you’re just outside the front door, I can hear you. You’ve got on that tweed coat, the one that’s almost yellow, with the thin black lines, and you’re smoking. You’re so elegant out there on the porch, talking in between exhaling, waiting for dinner to start. You say something self-deprecating, make that sound like a “tff,” you’ve dismissed something you just said. You laugh while you set down your drink.
We have a fat fish
Right now he is wedged under a piece of pretend wood at the bottom of his aquarium
His extremely tiny mouth is opening like a heart valve, again and again and again
In a rhythm making life happen
I’m waiting for him to die
Because he’s not really fat
He’s actually sick (more…)
It’s so clever how they set up these beds
With little bars on the sides
A man arrives and puts it together like he’s done it 10 trillion terrible times
He’s young and probably working for his family
Drives all day to set up and take down the world’s saddest furniture
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