The Near Future

Thank you for coming! 

The staircases rise up 

On their haunches and bound 

Over the horizon. Plastic chandeliers 

Sparkle with deception. 

Words are shuttled through the air

On molecules too small to see. 

I weep all day into a pail 

And then make a briny soup. 

Our nights are spent counting

Moon grass. O reader, 

Shouldn’t you be ongoing

As a cosmic slug, trailing centuries

Of goo? Forget the finger

Tugging a hole in the stratosphere,

The door propped open in your head.

Observe instead the steaming plate 

Of cutlets I hold out in front of you, 

Its abundant gravies 

Spilling onto the floor.

Together, Again

A horny octopus gathers its eggs in its tentacles

And flees across the horizon. 

This pink desert holds no meaning

That can't be discerned.

The watery sounds of morning spill onto my face.

Friends peer into my room, aghast.

Will we appear together once again in a new life?

I don't know, I don't know.