ghosts of george pearl hall

this place is full of

slick concrete

grey and vast

echoes and whispers

from behind doors always locked

I have lost control of my fingers I

wish on a keyboard but no they

do not behave they way they should my

pinky dances up and down without me telling it to

pinky, why can't you stay still

I will slap it with a ruler it doesn't

help where is the nun am I a schoolchild why

won't the shaking go away

little gravestones

I don't want anyone carving

my epitaph until I have picked

enough fights just for the small

happiness of slamming one million

doors-- don't write my eulogy until

I've broken the bindings of enough

books, felt my feet grow cold

with the knowledge of enough

Novembers--and don't lower

me into the hard dirt, not until

I've watched enough people pick out

fruit at the grocery store, eyes fluttering

shut like thin pieces of paper,

stealing grapes away in their wet

mouths when they think

no one is looking

Westcliff

as in that moment
after the thump
before the spray

you have this way of suspending me
in the spaces between your footsteps

internal monologue in the presence of joey richter

"hi,
holy fuck you're a real person
you're even paler and scrawnier and weirder-looking
than youtube suggests
you aren't just a parody
you're real and you're flattered
that i came all the way here to see you
as you run from the tour bus to a
public restroom"