the cigarette bathroom is humming
my hopes, often parsed
yet sometimes ample.
my memes are on fire,
my typewriter nearly ornamental.
my bathroom sprocket slowing down.
sex hardcocked and supple against her tenderness.
my carlots, empty and stolen, sullen,
my acedemia is stuck in sultry nightcubs
against the hard radio of description and tenderness
some things are too tender and precious to sell,
my zines are mysteriously on the rack of some sort of freedom,
my words exact and big.
my friends get kicked out of therapy and i wonder...,
will local music ever recover?
my friends buzzsaw guitar jangle
a sestina over the internet
and i once again wonder who types anything anymore?
a sleeping and obvious city brick,
a new talent,
a glitch revolutionary
an eviction notice
an unkind word
an insular friendgroup
a lost poem,
spurned on the edge of vocubalary
spurned on the end of language.