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
and comfortablish chairs that slowly devour, and the remnants of storms unspooling unseen above the plasterpatterned ceiling and stuffed gutters & tissue of sewage pipes rupturing beneath the mown lawn which is why I’ll never buy a house nor be one either because everyone belongs to a broken link sometime, everyone twangs when the net’s tugged, everyone loses their shoes from the impact cartwheels over the hood, etc., and solipsisms shift us back into the mood to fuck or fight our way out of & back in to is just the way it is, tides and fevers, funnels of clouds redistributing syllables into the great unspoken plains, ejaculated dust puffs where the trochees once gently fingered our heartstrings instead we walk on discarded chickenbones, plow furrows in plastic grovel for debt in the unexcused boneypiles of impotent ego-mining you’ll eventually need a conjunction to signal the shift to resolution, placed expertly in the fold of the readers’ expectation, apologizing for troubling the assimilation process.