always pressured to the ground
never from the same height
always already an all-night fair
on the inside of your skull
imagine that. imagine all the people.
cotton candy in your hair
a button coming off the inside of your sleeves
a rush for the automatic vending machine
dispensing emptiness
into the sweaty hands of man-
children. the worst sort there is
there’s one, hi-fiving dead air
into submission on the other side
of the street. an unwaxed surfboard
in his armpits. imagine that. imagine all the friction.
Divagyrations 