the window the wind rattles

by Steven J. Serafiani

We took the steel cold train to the missions and hostels of broken synapses
and we gave nihi a few days of our time,
duality consisted in the denim we wore then draped over shadeless lamps with caustic filaments,
shoring up the hoods and the glue empires and the fiscal pharaohs and the
tambourine maestros while being indebted to sleep,
I shook the maple trees of yesterday while you burned its distant glossy cousins,
I laid sod shingles and grew restless of the digital mausoleums we’ve laid
our eyes in day after day after day after day after day,
we drew caricatures of ourselves from what we thought our parents wanted us to be,
spent our moon addled minds with warriors of moonshine fleeing from this uniformed
flesh existence,
bags full of intricate leafy thoughts scattered throughout neutral colors and
alleyways,
we are not dead…no, no not dead
but our obituaries are written in hieroglyphs on the white sheets in which we have made our bed.

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