Disambiguation and the Illusion of Intention

Anger swallows
a body whole and spits out the freckles.

Video game bleeping wafts in from
the living room as the subtlest reminder
and yet is excuse enough
to keep me distracted.

What's real
is that I am preoccupied by
the existence of everything.
I want a body to make me understand
completeness but I don't remember
it having been any easier
to imagine from the other side.
There must be something to it

The present is so impenetrable.

I walk down the street and
the buildings in Brooklyn are all
to be hugging eachother:
rows of worn brownstones
leaning very tightly against one
another's shoulders reassuringly;
we can impose signicance
on anything and

flattery is cheap. I don't mean it.