Disrepair becomes you.
Lately, the diesel blooms
hanging on the midday air of truancy
have taken to biting me
a little at a time.
A little. At a time.
The time is negative, but positive vibes
are rushing in from the abandoned strip mall
to give us all what we deserve.
Exactly what that is will be revealed,
or else not. Stay tuned, I suppose.
I’ve sequestered a couple
of unnamed feelings to save them
from contamination at somewhat
my own expense.
All the better to appreciate
my slice of greasy heaven,
the seven-pointed star burning
the window glass. But in the end,
we all end up as pockmarks
on a dead god’s lips.
The sum of the someones
we’d hoped to become is always zero.
And the smoke lingers just a bit too long.