everything is clicking,
things are locking into place,
it's like clockwork,
but I am stuck sitting here,
staring at your eyes
in a photograph.
myself, I'm not simple,
clinically self-critical,
all these things in my way,
and so I play some music,
make some breakfast,
eat anxiety with pencils.
truth yourself to noon,
make way for a big hard sun
which smiles above
like a cartoon horizon,
save for the lack of love.
ain't it grand
to stand in the kitchen
and contemplate forever,
as if we could possibly
comprehend what that means?
tell when I can float
by just picking up the phone
or reading unblocked words,
all for a little queasy lust
down the river
to the rest of tomorrow.