Maybe your aim is off. Though it’s my cue that seems to strike off centre each time, the other end of yours just nudged my pint backwards  on the table  and a passerby barely dodged it last time. But the stripes keep sinking and my solid position is clearly shaky and my mock indignation at  your imminent victory  keeps me from feeling anything more real . Focusing on other things, always other things. His handwriting  looked charming, small and curved as it recounted dark encounters and I saw  something I wanted and couldn’t have. Orange brick and stainless steel and tinted glass are the objects of my attention and if I hate them this much I can only imagine what I might feel about you, miles and miles away. A fever of one hundred and three would boil blood.

Pinch your nose so you won’t smell the exhaust and see the rows of bumpers. Scaffolding hides the aged concrete, but all I wanted was the best, and you know my wishes are sincere. Another song. Shuffle,  Full albums inadvertently seem to tell a story and I’m not in the mood for constant narratives because I wonder if my story is sad, a tragicomedy of sorts. Dreadful irony seems to compel me to understand and not hate them but I still do, it’s only you that I can’t hate though I should. I got lost on the way home and almost ended up in Toronto where’d I’d stumble into shards, scattered as I now am across a small town metropolis. Karmic punishment for the week I suppose.