Two books.

It's a toss up night.
Keep fallin behind, not bein heard, not bein seen.
I remember how easy it is to not be heard or seen when you're sad.
Forgot all about that, feigning perpetual "okay-ness"
Keeps people at bay quite well.
Afraid to get to the point where you can't put your shit away
and people can see it and then regard it with hands open
or dismiss it with faces turned away.

I bet there is enough time, though.
To go thru this folder of randoms
Unidentifiable spirits, aching calms.

You would read them in a deeper voice, trying not to laugh.
I would be intent and sincere and
you'd fall deeper into the bed, it sinking to a space
I did not know about before.

For example,

"Libby on the couch, Jenny in the sand.
Penny in my pocket, Quarter in my hand."

You would read that and think of the absence
of the bottom of all your pockets.
No bottom, no found, no discovery.
Some things more precious than others.
And we would pause too long cause
nothing will ever fill that blurry, senseless, creeping absurdness
that is always placed firmly between our faces.

I would read Chapter 78, an excerpt:

"...you wake to nothing the same. and you have changed, in your dreams.
what've they made you, but less afraid?"


You would never hear about the morning the house shook.
Or the front yard back yard too-long-dwelling-before-recognizing.
The twisting, the shrinking of the things that are supposed
to keep me comfortable.
The reckless abandon.
I'm done. It's here. Let's go.