All that I can smell is fresh-mowed grass

and a clean t-shirt. I am eighteen, and the world is old.

No one can impress this upon anyone else

the same way. I climb wooden ladders to Galileo,

who fought the world round. Full of the sauce of life

and the dangers within, I breathe in, try to do it again.


In this empty bathroom, angry darkness hides, in the

earwigs that climb the walls and live in the grout, the sons

of a god no one can see. The rug is deep and full of silt.

I bet I haven't lost yet, since the tile is still underneath

and I can still see the universe. The space drips out of my mouth

and onto the floor. The bugs tumble around in the sauce of life

and stumble blindly under the door.


An angry agent sighs: running water, a door slamming.

This is romantic love, if I've ever felt it before; the taste of walking away.

All bugs scurry towards the drain and fall down, clinking against

the metal edges of pipe. Everyone mingles down the stairs,

faultless and alone. Galileo revolves in his singular orbit, somewhere

in the center of the sun. Everything is old, the stairs moan under the weight

of thousands of bugs and feet.


I am smelly, fucking life,

you fuckin bet, you fucking bet

I am.