inconsequential tragedy

turn off the lights.

my head is naked,

train of thought disappeared

by the band of guerrillas called

getting by.

displaced from all creativity,

soul-leaded, deadened eyes


stare back from an embrace, empty,


an abyss? the horizon?

for a spark,

lightning or earthquake or love,

divinity in jeans or a textbook,

oceans, empires, escape.

I close lids over slumped shoulders

and walk–


–fade, listless
into twilight,

the abscess of my own over-cooked thoughts

frittered away in too many instants of fantasy

so many sad schoolgirl dreams

bemoaning the absence of drama,

absence of impetus,

absence of anything.




(yes even)


what was it you were looking for again?


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