Monday, November 16, 2015

stops between stations.

horseshit- misfit- the tweed of
sorrow- not a soul
to cry to- not a soul- to really cry about-
either. looking up "how to run away" on the

internet. one type-o: all the people who'd be
affected. it's not sunshine that reminds me

of them, you see- it's the weighing of pros and cons.
and i see them, skinny hesitant people
walking around, who don't know better than to
not fuck me over

even when i'm signalling to them
"fuck me over".

i've spun a gray man, in
gray mist, gray
saddle, gray-naked, gray
fists, gray loose reigns, grey neighing horse,
grey directionless, grey saunter, grey town, grey throw, grey
hair, grey penny. these

are the statues solidifying. it takes time.

grey rich boy points at the penny
because it's exotic. grey poor boy
pockets the penny, and i'm not going to

say why, because i'm the grey poor boy. there's
no need for me to explain myself.

grey goes. one of the grey boys must become
a ghost. the ghost conjoins themselves

to the other- the survivor. unspoken
blood on their hands, obviously. blood

on all of our hands, generally, also
unspoken of. that's guilt, you know. believe me.
grey goes the goose to

the shelter that's somehow
like mozambique. oh, something about myself
is waiting for

that degree of devotion, that surrender
to gravity, all out of selflessness; the kind you'd lose
all your respect for yourself if you

tore yourself away from it. the world
swallows itself for nutrients

from the center, first, learning, upon
doing so, that there's no room in the belly- it's filled
with plastic that isn't going anywhere.

we will never fully solidify, no; we must
grin and bear it.