.

For the Thought that is not Human


The rain falls in a pattern of musical composition driving me fluidly
away from gargantuan thoughts of rash decisions
and leprosy of my immediate reality.

My life is a stream of non-encounters substituting song for fear.

Coffee leaps in octopus wings to wring wishes after dark
Black ink blocks out the image of you and your clean bedroom
sparkled just for me after a midnight showing of beer in your fridge.

I long to drink total shit with you
but now it's a joke, an entirely too difficult and realistic one to take,
as adults must despise their passion for the significant bits of a soulless life.

All of those wild horses I thought I would avoid for you are plastic figurines.