The voice of my addictions trails away this morning
   bored of the lack of recognition
 waiting low for a better moment.

We all know our multiplying sides get into messes. 
You fight yourself for a long time, then head down
Cuba St with a golf club, just going for windows. 

We turn to stone and crumble simultaneously. 
This is the age of aging.  What riches
have you laid up inside, for later?

We have to watch our words   dripping off the paintings
 failing to reach your thighs, misplacing their keys again
 shatter into a shape of safety glass.

    vanity. humility and words that stick
     onto your acts, interpreting

shyness, overthinking, hesitation, stories of loss,
 the internal struggles that tire you so much
you can’t go outside, so this protects you

The truth is something else, nobody knows what,
 but a strong theory gives a sense of control
 which feels like empowerment

This obsession releases you from the rest. 
Basket your eggs.  There’s so much too much
to sense let alone resist,  and nobody else seems to notice.

They sleepwalk the steps and drink
  themselves to joy at gigs and accept
the humiliation of the city’s needs, the cheap talk,
this romantic craving that wipes out the original

so it can keep existing.  You shut your face and work
 on the sensibility of a tiny portion of the reclamation
project guarded in our hearts, like a fortress or a zoo.

Being a human is incredible. 
Being human is a crazy distance
from everything that can’t imagine us.

There’s nothing at all we can do except continue.