joints
without formatting such secrets we wade amid rivers reach that point of both an entering in and the slow exit the chuckling rocks we risk our feet on & from & for branches refracting whats & heres & whos consider the torn corner where the shotgun boys play and the crack in the exhaust we’ve grown deaf to and the calluses trying to predict tomorrow’s hurt some sorta plaintive gesture, a numb hand’s helloshake okay another joint, this one with formica tables, lit in that hemingway way, with bulbs instead of money but you weren’t there yet, remember, so all I’m doing is reminiscing emptily, pawing away sand as sand pours in in the way there’s feinting with knives & in the way there’s pleasure-seeking neuropathic entrapment & in the way there’re the clampdowns, market riots, boys with chains in the way folks know, & hang out car windows to say so the plying of an effortless trade, the sailing of ships to move money around the islands and stained buoys that bob our names in the space between the great sun’s flashing extinction as all but those who know suddenly go and leave us as everything has to leave, cold food on cold plates in the sink before dawn painters tweeting removal process, and former colleagues friending ghosts the only way they know how, with an artless mechanical groping at private desks in the privacy afforded by closed windows