I am self-unemployed.
I have another side of me also,
all wussy.
Catapults into the darkness,
I like to think,
grave as a stranger.
My dread of my father
is great. Also money
and advice.
Also hammers and mistakes.
That February when
you stopped calling,
and the trees moped around
like teenagers.
As the maker of the motion
I can speak
to the motion.
It’s fucked.
Handcart to the parking lot,
I like to say,
ghost ship to the horizon.
I am right now one centimeter
from humming. OK.
I am humming.