This morning I washed my face in the bathroom and heard the crows outside the window.
I thought about how every time I leave the house there's a moment when I connect to the outside world.
I bought a book at an antique bookstore, something by Margaret Atwood, I think she's Canadian.
I wandered down the street and caught the sun.
Instant gratification parsed out to everyone.
And another day is done and I'm glancing back over the fragments.
I wrote something I can't possibly post.
It's too factual and easy to pin down.
I like to squirm under the microscope.
Make it harder to know why I write.
In blatant rejection of the simple terms I find myself drawn back to.
The history of me or you, or me and you.
And in my silence there is always noise.
Like static to electricity.
I wear my letter, capital A.
Faded jeans even you are gone now.
I have nothing but patches in my quilt.
Patches make a quilt.
And beyond the comfort grows my coffee tree.
Doling out caffeine, giving me energy.
Forgotten ones are you afraid?
Are you afraid of the bed you made?
I'm not lost, but my tracks are bare.
I left behind a trail in the heather and sage.
Broken branches twisted and snapped twigs.
Heavenly dystopia grant me one wish.
I have a suggestion: make it number two on the list.
The worker bee who listens to Queen all the time.
Finds himself constantly serving her wealth.
On the outer edges of hive bureaucracy there's less about her and more about me.