Ninety-nine cent lemons and five pounds of potatoes
fall bleakly from the grace of a thin plastic grocery bag
all onto gum paved sidewalks.
My daydreams of agave lemonade
pressed by my own slim hands
roll in dismal shame down long city blocks.
A fantasy of family dinner
set around our pockmarked table
bounces callously into the gutters.
The becoming of my peaceful muse
an idyllic, deliberate, reality
slips through my fingers, like melted butter.
I fall to my knees,
and my skin breaks against the concrete
bruising in harmony with soft fruit.
I can feel my timeline shift in my chest
as each piece of round, shining produce escapes further down the block
a dreary heaviness shoots through me, from head to root.
It’s funny how quickly
The sounding of rushing water leaves your ears
Like sunlight falling through a leaf
Or atoms weaving up my arm and through my sleeve.
Just as I find a gentle moment
To sit heavy on my tongue
It slips away, under and out
And dissolved moments aren’t things I can write
There are many more books on my shelves than there are thoughts in my head.
I copy and paste with dull scissors
the words of the masters,
and some words that I found in the back of a library
checked out only once or twice).
I eat the lyrics of indie songs,
sit close to people with heads full of thoughts
leeching dreams through my fingers
on their temples.
With the sunlight in the windows
and the carpet pulling at my arms
I stare at the ceiling and wonder
why my head is empty
save for plagiarized beliefs and an ache.
I wait and I sit for eureka,
I sit and I wait for eureka.