The spaces between people: laughs a world. Front tarpaulin, you raise your glass to woods with burnplugs and ankles twisted sideways, feeling wishy. Not a tan in the house, all bellies white and foolish and we slung noodles at haloes for getting old kicks in. Now, this text’s prepositional transitory mood maneuver: All hauled up from clammy ditch where previous civs deposited bodies, precious stones, even flowers. Once, waiting at a stoplight, I saw them taking a dead person away. The dead person was also waiting, but not to get somewhere else. Criss-crossed lines and cankick rambling walks on roadsides, traintracks, utility-conditional spaces where cities want you to walk but not authorities. Good advert strategies: free to buy, once you’ve tasted the expensive stuff. In magazines, trinket-baby eyes wink back at you for clever moments of goofy intuition. You dreamt of last night’s good rest, an old lover who meant a lot to you, as much as I did, but probably more. In this text, you and I are the same. That was the end note, so as not to pale out too quick. The meta-narrative was the occasion, despite being able to eat, walk, conclude things about where we were. Sometimes, I have this feeling, that I have lived too many different lives to represent myself honestly. Trying feels scattered. You feel a mode, think it’s me, be that for a while. We’ll both feel freaked when it alters. Am I listening, or watching your lips for change? Time was.
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."