here’s a poem i wrote on the train.

When I can’t do it,

to my mind archive I go.

Tossing and turning until I start excavating;

those folders that smell of old offices, harsh cubicle lights left on.

I find it, I find what I need,

what it is that causes this perpetual restlessness,

and I get on that flight.

Always by myself when I feel it:

my heart beats to life, asking me a question.

Similarly,

the night before last I had a good dream

palm burning on the deck, thoughts unrehearsed when

I slapped her, proudly.

And I walked out to the roof, drenched in the dark purple sky, thinking

it’s delicately doomed,

and disparately sad,

and I wonder, what could be worth this?

But I know that everything probably is.

So I chew and I chew,

my tastebuds growing tired of nothing, my jaw aching,

wondering why my throat won’t swallow.