Riding back from from a river bar, the man across from me is covered in rats. They seem to be his pets, he's talking to them, or someone, about rocketpops. Every now and then a rat escapes and runs to the back of the bus, where the girl with two cats has to scramble to stop full on chaos. They both get off at the same stop. Maybe they're in love.
They rip out homes like picking scabs and scratch
their beards about the blood. They sell gas masks
and gas masks at the same stands, one for immediate
one just in case, and the whole town
turns out in zombie makeup.
The unfinished buildings look like bombed out parking lots built up instead of out. The phone-riders
and car-yellers alike are covered in a thin film of egg yolk. I've committed to swimming every where I go for a month, so I keep two fingers in a thermos of seawater. Who's to say if I'm lying or not? Who's to say?
When it rains, I don't have to keep my hands in the water. When I promised
to always be swimming, it was more an exhortation to the weather than
They say it's a good view but
we're all washed out. Staring out a
high rise window at lights in the fog
like some kind of protagonist, but what kind?
hero or villain? Who's to say?
They ripped the playground out of the city center,
sent all the games to the dump. Now it's a shrine
to self importance and niche artforms. Look,
when the sun comes out there's a rainbow!
and I am still swimming, or lying.