Drone turnpike ride comfort.
Brownish blackness
I wonder where I am for six or seven seconds
and feel genuinely afraid.
But then, once I realize I am in bed
I feel in a womb.
Only two dank faded blueish eyes look straight up.
The smell is like me crawling around on the carpet.
My brother wearing wearing a pink feather boa.
The smell is people describing the smell as "country"
but the way they say it makes it sound like a bad thing.
Ordinary people.
Ordinary ******* people.
Using so many bags.
They never put kittens in barbie carriages.
Caged themselves up in their rooms with just barbie.
Tortured on a bed of legos for feeling attracted to a doll.
Sexuality is a spectrum, young young happy go.

From monday through wednesday leaves have crisped up cutting cutler hall streaks and a car flying twisting down route fifteen
mean trucks made kind passing over with and around gas injection wells quite old and scenic.

No more free merchandise.
Nothing soft or sturdy.
Nothing even red and dripping.
Raised eyebrow fooling into choking
uncomfort
unsound
reasoning.
I never thought about it like that before.

A free mind.
Worried about the bee buzzing near your lower back but that's it.
Slightly concerned about the sun in your eye.
Unbuttoning your courds, shamelessly.
Authentically.
A tad unnerved that you can't name the trees
or the songs of the birds but
promising that youll work on it.

I argued with myself briefly
about whether
I would reach out to you,
near the middle of the
night, body eager,
mind willing,
and finally decided I would
and I popped the question
(such a dubious question)
and you,
did not respond.

I hope I don't run into you today.

Like a log cabin with the door missing
a beautiful painting of a lady with the eyes botched out.
lazily wearing sunglasses and thick oriental scarves and stumbling around snow covered bricks and steps for tea.
If we spoke last night, I’m not the wiser.

Multiple television screens were left on, emitting evil streams of light into the darkness everywhere.
I misstepped and said my favorite instrument is a tuba, and a tuba bellowed and burped in my second sets of dreams.
Now everyone goes and I just sit here alone, without the right books
without the right writing utensils, without the right self, even.

You all look so handsome walking down the street together.
Will we ever be able to reminiscence Wednesday morning, Sunday morning, Saturday morning, Thursday morning (you know the rest) and feel that all the decisions we made were wise?
Idleness does not exist.
Impulsivity does, though, and she is a *****.  

she’ll come at night, draped in ****, soft, alluring material
she’ll tell you it’s okay for now
do what makes you happy for a little while
for a while
the morning doesn’t happen
the morning might be bright
you might have an internal dialogue and it might end it “why am I here?”
but, hey, it might not.  

Like a painting of beautiful angel face woman,
naked, and stretched out on a velvet canopy bed
but the eyes are botched out.

I'm a student so I'm kinda sitting on the toilet
looking out the window in the one of the "centers."
There is this Anselly-Adams snow surrounded pond
in the view but it is all hazed and glazed over from
some fumes. The steamy, heating types.
The fumes are making the view all convoluted.
It is kind of cool but also grosses me out and makes me
feel space-cadety.
Anyway, I see one of my hot babe friends down
below. He is the size of an ant--from my vantage point,
at least. He's wearing a long grey-black pea coat
and combat boots and he's walking with mad purpose.
Like he's about to do something mad important.
And he probably is. He might be picking up his
amp, or going to buy a cup of coffee from the cafe, or going to
play chess with another equally hot babe and
talk about astro-physics.
Whatever he does, I'm guessing there will be a
mild to medium byproduct of disdain, you
know, as a principle.

I felt rather disdainful, today, actually, if you
want to know.
It was because of individually wrapped honeys
(I am NOT talking about small, packaged beautiful ladies).
It is such a waste.
Condense the honey into one container.
Also, not everyone uses the same amount of honey.
Don't lump us together like that, multi-million
dollar food suppliers.

I asked you to come downstairs and share pancakes with me
and you did. You are so obliging.
No. Scratch that. You are so kind.
Not just to me, either,
(maybe I hate to say I may have felt: unfortunately)
but to all the creatures of the universe.
(Except behind the backs of corporate CEOS and anyone who rapes and pillages the land and its peoples).
Your roommate is from Japan and you ask him how his day was because you genuinely care to know.
I could forgive you for almost anything.