A violent cycle : not having enough money,

needing to work to have enough money,

but being too depressed, anxious, etc. to work.

In my mind, body, and/or soul 

hungering for earth’s food

while on fire with anger,

feeling lonely among water life,

yet tired of flying through empty

airspace crammed with interference. 

If you look hard enough…

at yourself, then suddenly, 

you will see the rest of us—

humanity—staring back. 

Above some, beneath others, I

drift through a breathing, 

visceral receipt: of types of people,

costs to wear them and

prices to become them.

In a separate bowl, combine:
2 tbsps of humour
1 cup of art and music
1 ¼ cup of melted passion and joy

Be still love, I’ll say.

When we listen, all will be

felt and is okay.

Thoughts orbit—

planets alienated from one another, 

looping ancient wreathes 

around a burning, 

untouchable star, 

unable to graze each other.

There was a time I thought my own

mental, spiritual, and physical shame

needed forensics when there was no crime.

They just needed love, breath, and space. 

Shadows cake the air that trails our bodies—

wool cloaks slithering up

the backs of couches and kitchen chairs,

across the walls and down the stairs.

I imagine your thumbs padding

against the bottom half of 

the glass screen, every

twenty-four hours or so.

Under the full, hunter’s moon,

I microwaved frozen blueberries 

and shelled pistachios

before sunrise.