a green house in jugendstil branches out
to me i want to live here, i do live here
but with an end-goal,
the end-goal always escapes.

in an end-goal that once existed
to me i should already be, i’m in it
but like the end of a rainbow,
dissipated, evaporated.

or already moved out, just before i moved in.
now, probably in the green house.

link in the chain of jealousy,
i envy you, you envy them, they envy me.
fetters, bind us together. i will make it,
you dragged along behind me,
the one in front is ready to hinder,
trip me up, in this way
there is nowhere to go, together
a damp, moist cave can be comfortable,
warm. take a rock and crack yourself
free. now shoot through the keyholes,
keyhole after keyhole after keyhole--
one shot, don't miss!
finding oneself in hope,
less darkness, now vadose passages
till the creek is reached, what
caused those unexplained floods.

at times the only way forward is
formed through fault lines, rifts.
each one you take carries
an existential risk.
the hole i once fell through
still exists.
somebody should really fix it up,
i could not stand another who missed.

a young child sleeps alone
in a nook at the party
while grown-ups talk and talk,
i am sitting at the boundary
between the two rooms,
two ages now, i remember drifting
between being awake and asleep:
awake to being tired and feeling
like no other child, in the group--
only a side-effect of being in a grown-up
gathering--resonated with me,
too young, too old, but it was nice
to talk to the grown-ups sometimes
about being asleep
dreaming
about being awake
as a grown-up
dreaming
about being asleep
as a child.

i arrived too late
to dance upon a city
of trash, and ruin

me--constant reminder:
had i been born
earlier, easier

so you say
build a home on the home
you made me

tell me again!
now is only a nothing,
a nothing

for i should be
a new thing, out
of garbage

sometimes, not
enough with white paint
on a canvas

used before countless times.
use before countless times
i'm used

to this circumstance:
a bottle rolls perpetually,
stuck at the top of an escalator

--i'm not.
step off the end
skip round the bend

can you see it?
look down the street
i'm up so far,

frolick up,
the unreachable peak
unsee-able, behind me.

mi dispiace per la zuppetta.
i broke your bubbly layer
dunk my croissant in prayer
your coffee makes me gayer.

mi dispiace per la zuppetta.
when at once your boundary popped,
please will you accept this, shocked?
i just hope i'll not get blocked.

mi dispiace per la zuppetta.
await reply, expectant
i'm just enough repentant
but can't take you, reflectant.

mi dispiace per la zuppetta.
in time i'll be recepted
have one's sip intercepted
and zuppeta reflected.

my life is so fucking boring
every story I tell about
someone else—at some point
forgot I had agency.

tell me why you are meant to be here.
I’ll entertain you. it’s in my script.
always the show, never who sees
that I brought cherry pie
and a heart of pleas
to have what I give you done to me.

Egyptian cat leaves a jagged frame
to hide in time, the future and past
only visible now from the side,
from your perspective these bricks
lead to nowhere in particular.

if i stopped at

the top half of a kneeling statue…
should i take your word? when
you tell me you are okay
and before i understand
you are lost to where they lead.

Tea-light flicker
on my tongue--tea
light, aerated words
slosh and swallow
from the back of my mouth
out! I tell you
bitter to sweet
cup by cup
unfold my leaves
before I dry and freeze.

a new friend is stuck in the revolving door to
my heart—my eyes, enveloped by faint lines and creases
like my mother who may never learn
to see my drink is half full, not empty.
my phone rings: happy birthday sung by my grandmother,
bouquet of flowers on the dining table,
four-day-old leftovers in the fridge.
things I cannot yet go through, sell or put away/keep
a loving partner who deserves to be free.
move to a different city, which final movement?
of a piece, a plant, a pet, a person, a party,
a meeting with a friend, one night stands.
one full day of daylight only leads to dusk;
on a Sunday eve, stop edging me, grief.

each facade--
assets drawn from your asset library
--hides the un-self-built home

walk down the canal,
caught a glimpse of,
the true self hidden away

a hoarse draws your boat
down down down
through these man-made rivers

past make me somebody
worth building here,
worth worth