there’s a point where the fiction and nonfiction begin to blur
stories and words
that you can’t make you
they make up
a devisive narrative
looking in the mirror doesn’t seem like such a farse now
reflection is that what it is?
the confusion is palpable
like you could hold it in your hand
gelatinous sack of goo
i look at it like you look at a dirty bathroom
how do you even clean this shit?
like go for bleach or use the natural cleaning products
it’s not about being squeamish now
it’s beyond abstract art
or deconstructed piles of wood
am i looking at a tree?
i don’t even know how to tell the difference from the reality and the knock off one
yet here we are
capital of surrealism
in half dream states
blurry at the edges
names you can’t remember
suddenly from the back of your mind they spring forward
and it’s like finding something on the ground that doesn’t match the setting
can it go the other way though?
can we find starlight on the sidewalk for when we need it?
like when our hearts need relief?