days go by & saturday is a cough you medicate

with an osamu dazai quote:


“[only] the weak fear happiness itself;”


your pour orange juice into plastic cups

at work, while the the parking lot pools

with water that will dry away; & it’s funny

how time exists only when you want it to or don’t;


how people go in & out of your life like flowers;


how the moon shimmered on the oceans loose skin

in Florida that night you got too drunk,

swaying your dumb body like a laugh along the pier;


how the greens & greys, the ripe, raw, bacterial things

that assemble the day in which you, wanting too much,

break experience down to impossible distances

and create your own dissatisfaction out of recycled air;


how we will grow old & strange, & be comforted by the structural

integrity of inevitability; how there are omens in a garlic clove,

a cup of coffee, a seat on the bus, if you want there to be;

how matter is never created or destroyed, is just there;