Josephine.

I'm being driven insane by the people who aren't in my life. Those lonely headlights that deaden my peace as they teasingly speed towards me and then away. I kept a mental diary of the people who could've, but didn't: The busker in stripes, a haloed waitress, that note taker.

This question was posed to me: Why go to different bars when they all serve alcohol?

She kept not being there, while I kept asking. I think I asked too much of her, to ask for emotional support. Social normatives don't need that.

In the end, no one needs anything, and really, that's all I can ask for.

Loops.

The confidence found in a mohawk, beer, tobacco, and stolen sunglasses.

Smoking to the filter, littering, public scowls. Impressing no one, perhaps.

She might as well live on the moon, I had said. Yes. I will laugh when she does.

oh.brother

In a moment of weakness I serenaded the moon. They let me continue, impassioned and off-key, until the dogs and cats joined in. Windows unlatched to find nothing but the rustle of leaves. In my bush I stared up at Andy Warhol's mug, the one which he drank from.

Disheartened and disillusioned, I let the ground take me down to an empty ocean and uncertainty. The sand between my feet, at the beach alone.

Cross-eyed? No.

I let the ocean beat more regularly than me as my tongue silently motioned words. To the lip-reading shipmen and mermaids, I professed my love to the heavens and above. Queryless I carried my feet some feet and feet forwards.

As the sea touched my lips and my hair began to float, I let the stars judge me like no one else ever had.