Between every space there is a word
making the space possible
Owing it’s entire being
to that space
There’s poetry somewhere
in the cracks of the dull and divine ghetto
hiding and peeking around corners
afraid of being dredged to the light
We’ll find ourselves
here amongst the weeds
hunched over and coughing up drugs
digging around for the words
It’s our volunteer work
our community service
our reflex
our addiction no doubt
all rolled up into one juicy handwritten spliff
This doesn’t make much sense-
the green and brown beer bottles rattling together
on top of the fridge
Conan’s impossible hair bounces
and retains form even through the rabbit ears
she says
our antennae will be obsolete next February
so if we don’t get our act together
we’ll lose it all
lose what-
Conan’s hair?
I wonder aloud
breathing out smoke signals
even more-
she bites the orange and continues-
more than you could ever imagine
(static)
one of the bottles bounces off the linoleum
and suddenly I realize my trajectory
is not unlike
the fake metal
yellow-assed
supermarket chair I sit in:
half in the kitchen
half in the living room
there’s only two of us in the efficiency
yet I swear there are three or more
depending on what her story is
divided
repeatedly and possibly endlessly
in our electrified radio wave apartment
by satellite minds
the strip of golden plastic
delineating truth from memories
and forcing empty space between us
Filed under poetry
