by Greg Bem

Dreaming of a fleeting bit of normalcy in my verse but I left it all.
No sense of noise and no sense of tone and my gut’s bigger.
Perhaps the I in innovation needs more starvation to come out.
Perhaps not stuffing my throat’ll lead to new eternal glowing lows.


In the thickly lit counter some vague sense of energy pulling eyes
and dragging vision into a soaking parking lot with a train sprawling by.
Graffiti is the light bearer and the clouds are menacing and I know nothing.
Break room nothing-faces and my pasta is a monster with dripping claws.


Speaking of spirals or the memory thereof, we live in one.
And we are dizzy and confused and the angles are all messed up.
And people are screaming about bleeding and murder too.
Speaking of spirals we can’t even figure out what we’re saying.

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