robots

i'm on gleaming skin, a 2 hour commute home, then only

Mercy in the special blue hours of the morning because

Someone me and not is quickly making his bed. he has a nasty yellow scab on the line, or he is unsoiled, but I am feeling coming back with

the fish who swim freely without knowledge of my head at all.

At some point I finally got those 2 unhealable wounds

And had to determine importance without motion.

I swiftly asked a homeless man to write this poem.

Then I smoked hookah.

I was broken speech revived, a part of that will take breath to now

utter to every other side like a lulav.

oh the Strangeness of limbs getting ready for the good.

This is beautiful season, 27 degree april,

2 computers, no sleep, a union in the making,

art on every doorstep, some lover somewhere not waiting at all but there

and the deepest secret nobody knows unfolding in my imperfect organs.

philadelphia always knew i would make it.