there’s a point where the fiction and nonfiction begin to blur

cross over 

into something 

unreal

real

stories and words 

that you can’t make you

they make up

a devisive narrative 

confusing

twisting

contorting facts

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

and wondering 

wandering 

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?