aperture

the galaxy is sick
Of controlling the earth,in which you occupy
while drowning in my English breakfast tea,in the garden
i am counting the ways my bones could break
if I fell
I am subtracting the ways

I have withdrawn.


here's who Ive silently become 

pacing. with my own two feet. I cant even bear the noise they make
each move-ment
 I cringe 
I think
I weep

And how was it that this all made sense last night?
I thew up my flag and followed you down that black beach

it must of been sunday
mistakes are often made on sunday

then tucked under a matress
and we don't speak of it

when the lord yells hide
we always seem to seek

about last night
obliged or obligated


even standing next to
or sitting underneath
that stunning masterpiece
on 12th and 16th
your hands
your beard 
your neurotransmitters become so linked
with my own. and we are one. and I've won. 
and you are won-derfully handsome.

I walked home that nite with six whole dollars in my hand
and a goldfish in a see through bag
in the left.


she was dying. 
I could feel it. 
 swimming but she didn't mean it

just as we live our lives
don't you think?

I fall into a sleep
around 234

i am controlled by the consistencies that are out of my control
ironic or interesting.

the neighbors same record on repeat
cloudy mornings with dylan 
bedtime with the king


I open up my sketchbook around 5 am
and theres this song in the background about
a hummingbird type of girl

I draw two circles on a page
(THESE  ARE PLANETS)

somehow I remember to write:

the galaxy is sick
of controlling the gravitational pull
of your heart
and your blood


underneath.