unbelonging

 

are you writing?

yes, and you?

I am, she said. How slowly is another story. 

 

it’s only broken glass and bullet holes

strewn across an asphalt jungle

bitter news of current wars

set upon by broken crows

 

unbelonging requires maps in multitudes

language shrill or under wraps 

the cunts who laugh at all the fuss

cleaning up comes after us

 

she likes her tea in a bath underwater

terrorists will sometimes surround her

content must be bigger than form

now that the dark gets in

 

there are things I think I don’t want to know

 

are you writing?

yes, and you?

I am, she said. How slowly is another story. 

nyc 10.3.23