When you sit watching trains you know your bones are rails.\nWhen you sit watching flights [[wanderlust|louche]] will roar and echo.\nWhen you sit in one place and something else moves you–\nWhen you open the door, when you say your piece, when the expected road closes, that comes with this pace. So [[leap|meniscus]].
Coarse weave of sounds from where men sit in kid-sized chairs,\nEating dipped cones with gusto. Loud edges of laughs\nTurn [[salacious|cacophony]], but only dogs are walking alleys, scratching back doors,\nTails waving out of time with the ice cream truck song, three\nOr ten times through, do your ears hang low and wobble \nAnd knots, and so on every evening, and cicadas drone.
In a neighborhood we never go to,\nBurgerville is now Prada,\nWhere a woman stands orange and young\nIn 1967. Today the woman and her dog \nAre dead or old unknowns.\n[[Saudade|insincere]] is a song for the city we don't live in,\nLuxury free. Tell everyone\nThe winter's worse.\nSay something cruel about our home.\nWe're stubborn. We called dibs with lawn chairs,\nThrew over-warm parties. Steam-bright windows.\nLaughing \nOff the chaff.
Let it be said: I may be smelly but I'm respectable! Respectable, [[respectable|inevitable]], echo the bathroom walls. Akaky pounds one stubby finger right through a rotten palm and pulls his flannels around him, straightening and stroking crumbs from his stubble. \n\nWhat more could a man require from this life than a job to do and a well-made coat, and a flat where bugs had ceased to crawl from the walls and instead they lay frozen, legs flaccid, in fear of his power?
In morning quiet, [[pelicans|inevitable]] considered their breakfast. \nWhitecollared like priests, thrumming over water.\nTheir muscle and fluff measured with tides–\nFootsteps, unplaceable [[accents|magnanimous]], the walk\nOf devotion. Sea foams at one's toes.\n
In a snack car of the Amtrak,\nTemporary friendships spring up in the din.\nTravel Scrabble kits, [[cacophony|wanderlust]] of kids with GameBoys, and someone's drinking infinite coffees,\nTrundling through someone else's backyard at six a.m.\n\nAfter hours the conductor talks honestly.\nHere lies everyone \nin a picture of [[today|saudade]].
The way of a red-lit room on a weeknight, \nWhere the band played their song with no words for an encore.\nI put you in my notebook when the show was over.\nPinned and wriggling in graffiti; a Prufrock bathroom wall. \n[[Louche|superfluous]] character, read [[later|respectable]].\n
A [[meniscus|pelicans]] in the stingray tank courses its plexiglass edge.\nRippling creatures, you're the surface and the depth.\nWeather systems cast their bodies' clouds \nAcross hermit crabs in their homes.\n\n"Was it worth the trip?" he says. She shrugs into her sandy feet,\nShuffling crushed conch shells on the walkway.\nWhat's a trip worth?
My [[friends|meniscus]] and [[I|awkward]] have [[favorite|wanderlust]] [[words|inevitable]].
This unit wrote the very manual\nOn insincere living. Consider\nThe formlessness of your current brand. Now, sharpen your iron\nAmong the glowing coals. You're on to something, here. Engage.\nRemember never to confess you're bored, never to\nDo anything because of joys or urges. Well, who could explain?\nDissolving animations, in conclusion.
Paternal towering statue,\nPaul Bunyan in a parking lot\nAlong a Southern freeway.\n[[Magnanimous|louche]], arms open,\nHe offers his blue ox or\nSome used red trucks \nFor one low monthly fee.\n\nAll this is yours my son. \nAll this is yours alone.\nAs far as we can't see.\nHumming neon, scratched CDs and food trash.\nSo now we're getting somewhere.\n
Erin Watson
The teens of other times had stronger words,\nOr so one must believe. Now the only spaces\nSlide along ruled edges: creepy, okay,\n[[Awkward|cacophony]]. And all angles, earnest or akimbo. \nStuff cascades from closets in worsening loops,\nOr it doesn't. It's not like\nIt's like this [[forever|louche]].
favorite words
Monotonous buildings stacked in a summative line. Empty piles of [[superfluous|magnanimous]] bricks, with ideas about windows where the windows ought to go. [[Larger birds|pelicans]] than pigeons perch on the rotten ledge and one runaway hides out in a corner, spitting chew at passing cars.
There are real ghosts and one haunts the lunchroom, eating potted fish over last week's newspaper. Her trick is to look substantial in the edges of your vision, a swaddled pile of pashmina, fine ashen hair, waist-hung. The ghosts occur when no one holds their gaze. The fear you might become one: unspoken, [[inevitable|salacious]]. If you don't speak, if you cast your face down, you make a deal with the glass walls that press you and the ghost together.
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