tripping up

Contained piles. Organized chaos. Seeing boxers on the road. ‘that’s fun.’ Small window. you know how everything is. vocal scream from the inside of your lungs but your lips don’t change and your eyes remain contained in their neat little compartments. Disaster relief. You are in trouble. Wasting water to clean the dirt left coffee stained teeth. The snail’s eyes that curl at you are the ones speaking. I try to absorb the sun but the light stays dark. My feet held by melting clogs. The pavement raises the cool air around her. Treading the heat. Saturdays have consisted of used port-o-potties and sterilized piss and feeling like my nine inch shirt speaks for itself. I have a wedding today and a wedding after that your voice is too far away I am finding my own source of contentment looking at this parking lot my jaw feels locked.