Icestorm

Dry knuckles, the aggressive scent of Clorox;
empty soap dispensers,
Row Row Row Your Boat sung over the loudspeaker for the first time since kindergarten. 

It’s not about personal preference,

“why do i have to make my bed every morning, again? it’s pointless, i just mess it up again at night.”

“why would you breathe if you’re just gonna die anyway?”

church is the most consistent variable in my life. three houses and fifteen years
it took me to realize. in fifteen years i’ve learned who killed abel but not why i should see god in blooming daffodils.

the same way now as it used to when i was seven but didn’t know it.

it fits like a poor man’s key in palace gates.

fifteen is less than the amount of types of headaches i’ve identified,

Legacy.

On my notebook, nestled in the corner
among glued-on stars, are the words
second law of thermodynamics.

It means, literally, that entropy always increases.
It implies that one day, the very last star will run out of

i.
sure, it’s gorgeous here;
i have plenty of nature’s glory
in these winding mountain roads,
but they make me citysick
& i need proof of human decay.

ii.
let’s go somewhere
where there are a million lonely people