Untitled

I searched for titles in the Sea,
made peace with eroded toes and salt lines,
in an attempt

to be me.

I made a boat with smaller boats
and foil, I searched for cracks
and the wanting

parts I fixed

I broke an oar and sharpened another,
on a piece that I was writing.
The current was strong,

but I wanted to risk it.

I Changed, fleshing out what was
not needed, then searched once more
in the augmented Sea,

just to retire, Untitled.

There's no bullshit in baking.

I put down a book of Twain's just
to read who's new thing
gets me what I want,

now on sale for a limited time.

I asked permission to blink
for free but was denied, then charged
a tellers fee.

With withered pockets and shallow souls
I can only sit and wonder

what a Twain is worth these days-

when no on knows how to
make bread and a buck and a half
can get me fired.

My fingerprints being chosen for me,
I played it casual,

measuring wishes

and deciding to count in months
instead of days, items saved for
when it rains.

There's no bullshit in baking.
You either have it, or your eating

dry cake and lying about it.

I forget to be warm when the Sun
sets early into the bay

of a sheeted window.
Chill bent and blaming

vertigo, or whatever causes
the eyes to avert downward,

causing me to miss you.

I'd call it apathy,
but it hurts to much...

I'd call it boredom,
if I could tell time...

I'd call it envy,
if my contentious boasts of

words spelt vitae.

Curious minds grow intrusive
spines, and I probe what

could have been. But recall
strained voids forgotten on

purpose, when summer
sins proved worthy and

I drowned in your games.