Footprints From the Day Before

Face and city reflected in the stars through glass.  The dishwasher lulls to sleep.  Walls fade to foam, the trees turn to oceans.  In whispers and hum.  On the pink edge of haloed sky churning and blaring safety from soapy waters crashing inside its factory.   Isotropic.   Refineries sweating and bloated blending currents dusty, aged quiet, footprints from the day before.  The hovering swarm attacks and sleeps with frequencies.  To the soft silence.  In the soft silence.  Movement.  In the black between reflections, the sight of an escape.  To the shadows deep within molecular clouds under water where no stars are seen.  No importance.  No power.  Out there is inside brains, infinities captured by the humming lullaby.  Pleasing painless aloof.  Branches extending into wind, into clouds, mountaintops and ghettos, rain breathing capital to the binding fulcrum, dripping to roots, to soil.  Evaporation.  Reflected in eyes and hands wrapped in discipline and vacations.
Washing the face under cold water.  Nothing.  The known shock dripping off the nose.  Under eyelids, the mirror image of the self-reflection laced with imaginations seen before.  Somewhere.  Like that fucking train, the faraway moan and wail tending senses that long for someone else’s purpose.  Loneliness that resides inside the barren desert scarred by train tracks across you, and the ways that have been seen, and will become.  The thick sap of bullshit seeping from these words.  The difference between Saturday and Monday.  Your world inside the dishwasher.  Time and the meaning of life and the pursuit of pleasure.  Its humor.  The unreal that populates the echoed loops I see and think through.  Filters, the blue sky, the mountains.  Don’t care.  Green pastures, rain and hail pelting your things.  Its happiness.  Silence, why?  Stories and stories to poems to words that point to silence.    
Particles, bits of food part consumed, washing, washing.  Static and snow.  Decorations inside industrial machinery underneath dim fluorescence, cracked spines that light recognition.  Feedback.  Revolving circadian rhythms walking, fearing, sleeping, cheering.   Entertainment, Farming, Reverberating.  Edible displays fucking spaces of hypnotized assets; beings merchandise.  Hearing, seeing, overstepping tracks of futures, from the day before.  Transparent.  The paths of airplanes into stars.  Porn with love from love.  Museums under shoes of the masses.  And electrocuted moths with pavement.  Separation.  Nighttime dreams that radiate in morning antitwilight shadows of colors speaking against bloodshot eyes of shift workers’ diluted residence in waning incandescence.  Value.  Influence recycled into air, into wires, into ordinary blood bleeding everywhere.  All over. Flowers from fossils growing higher and beyond the ceilings, towers, orbits, and time, to abstractions, freedom, majorities, and excess. Gone.  Disappeared under the weight of footprints existing, only nowhere.







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