I feel like the sticky sick streaks of sea foam that stretch across the shore sometimes I don’t know when all pieced together with deadly plastic poison particles stewing in our blood.
It is all cool and easy in the breeze here on the stoop where life keeps slowing down, the newspapers don’t come anymore or they’re all soggy with dog piss and gutter water dripping with dreams of sea foam green capillary streams.
Stubborn and mustardy nose bleed that feeds my lower thoughts like the things I can’t see in and out between sleep, that aren’t known in the light, that flee in oil slick shadows.
Spit your split tongue out, all wagging with the wet not-thoughts-yet that gum up and stay awhile, sticking in the corners of your mouth, sea foam spittle and bits of beard and bread gone bitter.
Mad cap mission to Michigan, sure the sky is blue enough but did we fossilize in time to make the fuel?