Disasters, both natural and not,
events without context, news
and opinion in the inexorable blender:
spaghetti models, fear, denial,
the slow back roads get you out
faster than congested freeways.
On the menu, a cocktail named
Category Five. Distinguishing
between firecrackers and gunshots,
the spaghetti-thin model maintains the lie,
vomiting off-camera. Sometimes fear is a gift.
We long for mountains and snow.
The upstairs neighbors have a big family
who all wear work boots, and happen
to be insomniac, giant centipedes.
The apartment is ludicrously
over-priced but convenienently near
to all the best beaches we don't visit.
What I do between dropped shoes
can not be called sleep. What you do
between sleep might be called dreaming.
Qualia, yours and mine, separate us.
So much suffering that we're cross-eyed from looking
away when there's nowhere to look but within.
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