apple core

fast on the bus as far as we can go.

everything is green

and wet

with little snails on your eyelashes,


and tongue.

tastes like the day I drove

with the windows down

not knowing a year would bring

dirty skies

and glasses left on the bedside table.

but now the mattress is on the floor

and made of volcanic rock,

always shifting.

it was afternoon, and I

saw your thighs bleeding in the living room,

closed the door,

and turned my car the wrong direction

down a one-way street.

fuck vapor wave kids


dopamine crawling

down my spine

the sky is nothing

this drive is nothing

here is an empty convention center

with microorganisms painted on the carpet

space to move

I hate it so much when you die

so stop dying

rusting beams and

a sunrise to match

golden golden golden gold

let your hair grow

this is the tropics for crissakes