making cents
but no baddie,
really. he makes
his lists to do and
never orders
anything to go.
the seafarers
know him for
looking at
blue whales
a bit askance
and for em-
barrassingly
long periods
of time. i
saw him
myself only
once. he was
reading an
atlas that
never even
shrugged.
all of this
comes to be.
and the itchy
desire to make
it more and more
absurd as i go along
captures me and
turns me into the
boy who cried
wolf! i try to
slap on an
adroit con-
clusion as
if it were
the taut
and ripe
behind
of a
dearest
comrade,
but then
i realize
this cannot
be right. it
just wouldn’t
make sense to
make sense
at all. so i
aim for
anarchy,
my worst
nightmare.
i grow more
and more com-
fortable with this
madness and the
dark shadows
wrap them-
selves back,
and inward,
curling at
and into my
skin, which
remains in-
tact, gives
no proof
of evil’s
appearance,
because evil
simply
doesn’t
exist.
which,
in the
end,
makes
perfect
sense.
