237

Can he
count all the things around him?
Feel all the branches, touch
the braided grass to remember some earth taste.
It’s all stale.
Sold the cardboard dreams of fame for a
studio and a view.
At least it’s neon.
It’s fast food rotting in the roots of the building.
Forever living in a home in the woods.
The penalty never seemed so steep.
Bottles always better in fluorescent lighting.
So much can be done with a generation on
prescription hallucinations.
I remember a lover telling me we’re all sick.