My phone politely starts my Sunday:
Good morning human,
your mission is to find out
whether purpose matters.
Where subdivided paths marked
I saw enough to know
the truth of almost nothing.
Where falling cartoon clocks shattered
into bells and spiral springs,
I waited for a gentle sound.
Where graduated tick marks
switched the traffic lights,
I stopped to contemplate my lies.
I clean my teeth and start
miles away from home.
On the steps before the gym,
I come across a stranger.
He sighs and coughs the city air,
looks up at clothes
the sky is wearing, faded stonewash.
He’s writing a note for school tomorrow.
There’s a river running through my house,
it washed my life away.
I did my homework though,
imagined words that rest
on feelings, heartless and unfounded,
my love for you.
The expression of my thoughts
is marred by imperfections,
stigmata of my youth,
but I promise I’ll do better, teacher,
I promise I’ll do better.
I travel onward
through the artifice of realism,
its bones and bolts,
where cranes are idle scaffold vultures
perched on vertebrae of buildings,
dry and dying before their birth.
Now I’m in a photograph of sunset,
a page unopened in a coffee table book
of diversionary lust and neon.
Twilight ghosts that rise in autumn’s smoke
awaken all around me.
The beautiful horizon, the ocean’s
distant line, is my conceit.
In her nearness, she is restive and chaotic.
As I journey, less days are right
and more are not,
but I promise I’ll do better.
My phone is intrusive and not polite at all; my conclusions about what I saw while I was driving to work one day.
autumn smoke part above.