#34 Poetry

Sliding Doors subjectively a better poem than that Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in a Sliding Door. Sliding Doors but Gwyneth eating tempophagy I am eating door.

I extricate / myself because I like / the process of stitching / back together tidal / journey after tidal / journey

She drove; / she only drank Red Bulls / and had a fount of uncynical / innocence I couldn’t compete with, / I mean she sang the radio / the whole way back / while commenting I was / the only drunk in existence / who wouldn’t sing or dance / to stuff.

I’m so glad you are doing well and I’m feeling better now but I need you to know that I can’t sleep these days and I can’t write. So I’m up all night trying to stick the brightest star on the tip of my tongue. This is my soft apocalypse with one breath I become.