To become better
acquainted with space,
let's spread ourselves
thin
If our shirts get too tight
let's ball ourselves up
into nothing
Let's make certain
we always have a plan
If our memory is lost
let's remember we
kept another in the
bottom drawer
If we are unsatisfied
with the air
let's hold our breath
and our tongues
should we feel like
speaking out of term

You're a good man, Charlie Brown.
You're the immigrant that hit the ground
running to and from the La Guardian taxis
it's good to see you in this perpetual state
of rock bottom honesty mixed with terse self involvement
It's as if we're watching a critical analysis of you
fucking yourself. It's groovy to me
and you're very aware of this.
I see that your demons don't make it too
far out of your head. They're always within
arms reach just waiting to grope you in the dark.
But you're not afraid, are you Charlie Brown?
You're the boy who cried devastated for no reason
You're the last hoodlum troubled by the threat of one
of those new existential meltdowns that take 24-hours
to clear up.
You make us all proud.
You're a good man, Charlie Brown.

Young Lady listens to Depeche Mode
to think
or she prefers absolute silence
She considered
transcendental meditation
until she found she couldn't afford
a spiritual guide
Young Lady considered just guiding herself
but didn't feel comfortable
with responsibility or holding things
or being a twenty-something young lady
who just started smoking
That's what she gave a homeless man
instead of a dollar
"It's all I have," she said while lighting
Young Lady is convinced that her children
will be free even without
enduring the misery of choice
That said, Young Lady claims
she can still recall aesthetic
as she once could
She just has to sit and
enjoy the silence.

I've made room for you
but my sneakers
are by the door
and your phone
is on the nightstand
Please don't forget it
because I'm on my way out
Stare if you want
while I wrap my hair
Just don't get caught up,
I can't drag you with me
Watch me if you want
while I tie my sarong
Just don't get tangled up
I'm in a hurry
I will call you
I will see you
later
I will make room for you
again
but my cigarettes and books
are in my bag
near the door

When we're high you say things like:
"Our reality is not a THING
but a RELATIONSHIP."
I repeat this, but louder
and putting emphasis on the wrong words.
I don't mind your philosophy
so long as you know we're individuals
and I get my own pillow after our
romp and laugh.
Other than that, I'm not an extremist.
When I remind you of this, your eyes
get shiny and lost
like you're taking inventory of all that's
absent in the world and present somewhere else.
I like your eyes
They tell me there's nothing to the past
and we're just lumping shit together.
We romp and laugh until tears come
to my eyes and I scream:
"Stop, stop, I don't want to be synchronic!"
And then you let me take my pillow
and retreat to my side of reality.
With a smile you let me settle.

Don't Let Capitalism Get you Down

I talked to my sister on the phone but cried half the time
we talked about being positive and making yourself do
things you wouldn't want to do.
"You should make friends," she said to the 12 year old
sniffling on the end.
I'm a fucking adult, I wanted to shout but didn't
"You're right."

Sometimes I feel like giving it all away and going on a
journey like that guy did. Eddie Vedder did the whole
soundtrack and I wouldn't mind living like that.
I don't tell people this.
Instead, I say. "What do things MEAN? And how do
they relate to me? Do I need THINGS?"
People nod thoughtfully.

"Don't feel guilty about consuming," my sister told me.
I do feel guilty. I'm supposed to. I think about the THINGS
and let it slip, that I want to give them all away.
There is silence on the other end.
It stresses me out. "Is there anything I do that's working
for the world?"
She doesn't understand the question.
"What am I doing here?"
She takes that to mean I'm defeated. "You just need to be
PROACTIVE."

I was given a book. Marx says you are at a disadvantage from
birth, any gain you make is at the expensive of some other poor
soul and capitalism isn't worth all the huzzah.
The book didn't tell me anything about my disengagement
from society and my own former consciousness.
"Yes," says Marx. "You are a consumer and you
should feel like a loser." I already knew that.

"You sound depressed," says my sister.
"I'm actually very happy," I say still crying. I am. "I'm just
thinking too much lately. I'll make friends."
"Good," she says too quickly. She's done with philosophy.
"Now get out of the house and treat yourself to something."

Behind horn-rimmed glasses
with a Camel Light between lips
stained the same red
as her cropped duster of a bob
Absolutely soulless
and knowing of it,
she arches her brows
as the non-marginal walk by. . .
muttering under heavy breath:
"fuckin' posers."
Because she still has to watch out for them
She doesn't know that she looks just like
Sally Jesse Raphael
and her friends are not going to be the ones
to tell her. They'll let her mother.
"Dear, those glasses look so. . . severe
on you."
Under her gravel tracked breath
she'll say: "fuck off, mom."
Then take a fatal drag fogging up
the windows covering
her dull mud brown eyes