a common now is achingly situated and aware of itself
there is no plain hour to lean on in the wake
of the musuemed hours already come to pass.
we are held in the hollow body of time
wondering and never resting

there is something i would like to get off my chest:
in general the present does not exist !
unless
it's a constant rug being pulled or
a kaleidoscope anguish
between what was
and will be

seventy five per cent of moments feel brittle to the point of crumble
fragile with the residue of mirrors.
and for some this is it:
from beginning to end
uncertainty humiliates
our attempts
to hold on.

this is terrifying?
it is if you're not IVed to smoking weed
or working or drunk
we're so busy
making it look like we're alive
and that this is easy.
as if we have nothing to do but coffee around and look into reflections of ourselves
in store windows, car windows, pages and screens friends and lover's faces
as if nonchalantly extant.

i think we're dying because we're not swept off our feet or
taken out of brains so we stop thinking about it all.
we go on buying smiles and orgasms!
as is if there is a tic toc enough for such boredom.
loathe the person that says with their life:
i survive casually
living is something just happening to me, unplanned
my flesh and i ride it out.

and love?
the thing we all hold out for
love tries to be a feeling of reflectionless light
that strips back the lies we're hiding behind.

we realize that we could be having more fun
or something along the lines of we need to die
to even begin to want to be alive.
but right now it seems we're just flat blind

our bulimic quest for
possibility +
authenticity

is a storm of endless jars
each holding a little bit of something
but no single jar seems to have enough to be anything
never much, never quite satisfying.