what am I going

a warm, windy day in LA
it's February
crouched on the sidewalk
I sign and stamp
a certificate of authenticity
and vow to use
the same ink for
each one to come
but I know I can't do anything like that
which makes me want to sleep in
my wheelhouse
and lock the doors
ignore taxes and everything
that's rotting

the tide is back out
and pre-bleeding
has me going, worse
at shapeshifting,
swollen and
buzzing with
no

on better days
clean days
I imagine myself as a stiff,
unwavering scarecrow
with a posture precise and
unbreakable
gliding "tall"
using only as many words
as necessary




are we collectively more tired
from being alive for so long
I swear it's a pile, not a thread
all of us
50 years ago on an airplane
everyone, not unlike the scarecrow
looking out the window in
measured awe
and now

America looks so shiny and obvious

the clouds were so fresh today
that I cried on behalf
of desire
for a cloud-painted ceiling
as a kid, and the kind of
infinity
that it would bring
to childhood

I recall the supine trap
and can see the cracks now
the most dreadful time of day
stamped by fading light





the clouds were babies today
and it got me to the first step of crying