Accessorizing a borrowed life with faces –

no names – they’re unnecessary.

Don’t complicate the process by streamlining

a story made prettier by scar tissue, scabbing.


A fault line runs through the doubting  

air, fat on it’s own labor, like lighting

cigarettes on sunburnt backs. The first one always

clouds the breathing space


like too many clouds in too little sky.

A single teabag in the bathtub where

life gets stored, wrinkled-skin shining

toward a sleeker consumption. Borderlands fold inside out.


Don’t look anything in the eye. There’s a smoke

storm coming. A cigarette exhaled in someone

else’s kitchen. Riddle-red cheeks fade back into

other-storied guests.


We’ve been here the whole time.


Image found here

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