After The Parking Lot
I woke up in the morning
to the smell
of the color
of orange juice,
and my head was
pulsing to the throbbing
strobes
of the music
I heard the day before—
in something like
a dimly lit cave,
a cavernous fallout shelter
build from the styrofoam
rocks of a Gotham society,
and the red lights
bled into the yellow
and darkness melted
in the exhaust
of fuming eyes
and the wherever
of wherever
they stare.
Peripatetic dreams
cycle around the purple haze
of a wakeful gaze,
blazing out in the afternoon's
tepid reaction to
the afternoon
before. I can't believe
I'm alive—
What was I thinking
Being alive? It's such a bad idea
to be alive…
whatever.
I painted the roads last night
with the colors of my stomach
and I'm glad I had someone
to hold me because I think
gravity was tearing apart
my insides, flinging my outsides
to the wall, or my car door, or
something else wobbling in
the neon nothingness that
stopped in a parking lot.
and I really apologize for that.
My eyes are sinking into
the socket,
hovering above the liquid,
but drowning.
and I don't really remember
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poem by Tim Stensloff
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