The pen has callouses
Have you heard?
It's time to clean up the mess that is my lunch
Bread crumbs and orange peel
laid out like the schmatics of the purple machine
Only really, I never got to look at it
I liked the sound of the words together.
The fingers are clumsy so the keys speak for themselves.
The future is like a chalkboard
locked away and darker than the mildewed basements acting as their graves
there are no factories left willing to produce the chalk.
I dress myself every morning with older rags
waiting for the accumulated sand to fall out
maybe I can gather it and sell
it would be good if it could be melted down for glass.
Like me, I am see-thru without reflection
folding each smaller piece of paper tighter
it makes the trashcan regardless
leaving the faintest sense of itself
that's an uneven jest
I'm still thinking about the purple machine and the sand
I can't even process what's supposed to come next.