candid(acy)

i’m in a bookstore
drowning for a stretching moment
in the tales          (chasing tails -
                            isn’t that what we’re all doing?)
until bodily aches
    (persistent reminders that,
    in spite of all evidence to the contrary,
    i am, in fact, alive)
force my attention elsewhere...


[enter Act II]
SCENE: a dirty restroom,
cold and smelling of piss.

everywhere are impressions;
flamenco guitars, middle-class pseudo-intellectuals
    (be my friends, we can all have a mental circle jerk

    and oh, aren’t we lovely???)


“See anything you like?”

              (the girl behind the glass case.

                                    open, exposed, at a word,

              the images that [youspreadbeneathme] thrill through my brain)





“just the ciabatta, please.”


          because, frankly…

there isn’t really anything else here.