Tuesday, February 23, 2016


He didn't go and he wandered off into his routine a chosen reject deemed from before under the watchful spill of stars obscured by polluted dawn where she'd like to go outside the box he held down with his bloody hands stinking of where he felt himself behind his phone turned about to look at his tunneled vision bored into obliviousness.  He was born into oblivion's vomit cast out into the world of rectangular glances through porridge and smoked cigars falling out of your bearded lady's discomfort tuned to a station wagon's rear smelling of napkins getting up to scarf and squatting down to digest fuming speech into the ears of question marks erased by opinionated plates smashed against kitchen floors over heads splitting into couches wet from the tongues of dogs.

Where she ran off from was made out of cardboard these days and days to come to come not if exhaustion had anything to not say about it withheld words sinking into pillows held up along the sides of brains that run on full tanks of worry knocking and chalking it up to technology the technology that uses people has always used people to drown in their own waste.

The drawing blew over 
the concrete wall
stained with what
the notes disappeared from
the dirt backyard
littered with when
the scribbling faded into
the narrow alley
clogged with why

- Max Stoltenberg

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