That-Random-Child

Dear baby, my baby with a wrinkled pink face and little squinched eyes and spit running out of your mouth, I'm not going kill myself tonight. I was thinking of going to the swamp tomorrow in the rain they're calling the pineapple express I was going to lie down in the tiny court of trees covered in leaf fluff like giant spider webs and soft grass and cactuses and deer that was going to be a good place to die and it made me feel less like I was being ripped in half thinking about sleeping forever in the swamp but then I thought about you tangled up in my unmade bed, crying thinking there isn't one reason to stay alive not cinnabuns,

There's a poet blooming in San Francisco okay. there are a lot of poets in San Francisco there are a lot of poets everywhere and none are special but some are smooth as chilled coffee some are silent when they want to speak all are sad as TV, and that just comes with the territory but this poet, specifically, in San Francisco recently uprooted looking for the Beatniks, maybe sits in the second floor of City Lights by the window all fogged up with sourdough condensation and he is surrounded by the undead Allen with his face screwed up and Jack laughing this poet is just now nineteen and even though it is no different than eighteen it is Wi

Dear baby, my baby with a wrinkled pink face and little squinched eyes and spit running out of your mouth, I'm not going kill myself tonight. I was thinking of going to the swamp tomorrow in the rain they're calling the pineapple express I was going to lie down in the tiny court of trees covered in leaf fluff like giant spider webs and soft grass and cactuses and deer that was going to be a good place to die and it made me feel less like I was being ripped in half thinking about sleeping forever in the swamp but then I thought about you tangled up in my unmade bed, crying thinking there isn't one reason to stay alive not cinnabuns,

This is someplace new again and it's hot and empty and dirty So now this is home The voices are quieter here, the air is stagnant But the stillness is a relief too And he puts on his bravest heart and drags the sheets to the floor Just like a campout Like an adventurer sleeping in the wild abyss The moon high above through the window and there are spiders in the garden Oh this is someplace new and painful Ill fitting like new shoes And he cries because the old places are gone And he also cries because he is happy they are gone and maybe this time It will be better Always This time This time And he falls asleep with hope on his eyel

The wind gusts up in Cypress’ face, for a moment he can’t breathe and he closes his eyes until the wind dies. The stoplight across the corner turns yellow, like the lemons on the trees and the afternoon is clear and cold and Cypress continues, patient patient, to wait, and someone calls his name. There are quick footfalls and a splash through the puddle nearest and then the someone is standing next to him. “Cypress,” the someone huffs, and he reaches to grasp Cypress’ arm. Cypress shakes him off. “Hey.” Tulip sucks in a lungful of air and hushes, “Cypress. It’s there. By the river

he never bothered asking the meaning of it all    went along, wishing good things would just  happen hoping to arrive at a point of interest    a tourist destination where they would show him where to look  and what to take pictures of they`d sell him souvenirs to commemorate the memories between himself and the screaming children, fluctuating bunches of high-schoolers, and the retired couples with the funny stories who share their sunscreen with him, because the all-knowing guides forgot to mention the  two hour waiting period between museums sitting in a plastic park under the afternoon ozone he feels sticky and slightly nauseous he w