It isn’t safe, but it’s not sorry; the gas is growing crystals in the lungs.
It’s not bad, but it’s not perfect: maybe this is just a trial run.
Is this my house? Do I own free weights?
I am a fucking man, my chromosome’s a forked tongue.
It’s my garage: it’s my gas, my car, my time, and my enclosure.
Don’t be last, and don’t be lonely. See a special kind of timing in the leap.
Don’t be cruel, don’t be annoying, don’t sell yourself short.
Is this my ring? I must have four kids.
The dimpled plastic roof is not quite yellow.
Are these my hands? They look like trees choked out by vines.
Is this my breath? It’s more like gun-smoke?
Two fingers pulling greasily at chicken.
Is that the sun? It looks too sharp and clean:
a bubble filling endlessly with air.
Is this my friend? It feels to forced for that.
It isn’t wrong, but it’s not quite right.
Now living feels like whispering at night.
I have a couch, I have a TV now.