This is not a story, there is no conclusion, it is more like an orange with a bite carved into its peel.

The morning rises alongside us, wanting to be desired,

so we sit barefoot in the grass and let the wetness be. 

To hail a taxi is to tell the world you are here, yes, wanting to be desired.

The night will sit like silt on your shoulders and you will feel fat with thought.

Cold language wakes a quiet mind

caught between coherence and chaos.

Peeling oranges, words painting joy,

the weeding through of imagination. 

We throw our heads back in sweet adoration: how lucky we are to live and to die and to do it all over again, tomorrow.

We fail to realize that there is beauty in this nothingness; 

these empty streets and these empty daytimes.

The fragmented self fiddles with existence, idyllic moments trapped in cranial space maneuvering between here and now.

As I came out of my mother’s womb I was knocking on wood, banging on the bed three times to make the sounds stop.

cradled by complacency,

wrapped in the muddled blanket we call home