It's difficult when uncaring you-
thrash my browning leaves to the grass
and-
they once fell so slow-
over and over again
playing it before my eyes in
cyclical slowmotion
on a wide angle lens-
you like the loss of perspective
or the stretching of it-
remember
we're not artists-
just insane losers in a world
steaming dry-vacuumed
with the rest-
dirt-life-love-hate
tucked under the rug
and spilling out of the corners
up against the wall
where there's this
faint-
sound that we ignore-
like the truth,
they call it forgiveness,
but its violet over the fading light
and shining on the now blackness
there in the balance
between concrete and happiness
without a home
mangled and terraformed,
you say it's-
life.
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