A cup of chicken rice soup and half a sandwich
Bothers the complexity of the drought
And eighteen months left of water, far king
On the other side of the state line.    Within

Me sometimes there's weird vibrational breakdowns
And machines and lights or buses just stop
Digesting and the slight sound of my own voice
In my ear is alarming and familiar and surreal

Don't move away
I'm here sitting at this cafe
Waiting for you
Drinking beer
Watching homeless women
Comb their mermaid hair
In alleyways of a dive, but your news

Instructs my gut, a pit I would have swallowed
Had I known the small noon minutes
Would be so hot on Fulton Street
Although here in depth to all kinds of weather
just presence

The threat of the ending of the field of the stretching of the

Threat of the ending of the field of the stretching of the

Threat of the ending of the field

Wide open arms around the bottom of the sky

Lift the rise into the set, the tiger colors
The stash of reality I keep in each palm
Wavering as to not wanting

How the alley mermaids turn their hair into lunch

How this great divide forces the nutrients to absorb disparity
the moving on and the made to move on or the
safe enough portions for daily intake
the FDA did not consider in reports

Today or yesterday, it doesn't matter that you'll move away
I have mouths to feed if the lights would just stay on
Great, big giant mouths to feed if the lights stay on
masticating mouths
Occassionally spitting up lunch to make room
For more of you