Chronically volatile
thoughts
piercing through
a bubble
filled with
jelly and germs
awaiting
an opportunity
to worm and wiggle
their way
cell by cell
into
cracks and crevices
of aged skin.

Renormalization

Zing went
the silly
string theory
of my heart
but you
can’t restart
time that’s
already
stopped
beating in
alternate
unison
canned in
limbo and
spewed at
unoccupied
spaces.

Functionally
dissed
I missed
and cut
my lip
on the knife
eating a slice
of a peach
in the pit
of despair
at an age
where
we’re
supposed
to be
civilized.

My spiritual adviser,
Kevin says,
“the answer is
right in front of you,”

so welcome to the hotel California,
I have a confession:
I don’t dance to remember,
I dance to forget.

Remember,
this is not
specifically for you
but I did
used to love
those boys
of summer
and Spring
keeps fucking
with my head.

Wait,
forget everything
I just said.
Fill’r up and
let’s go
for a spin
you and me,
let’s dance to
Bowie instead.