fake weekend

peripatetic or whatever the test kitchen

looms then recedes, the way your head

assaults you in waves, back in black &

bells, that is, recorded bells, tolling fitfully,

messed around by the spring breeze.

again, it takes years to figure this out,

big bird transport seems a little too

specialised but hell, ya gotta make a living,

no matter how limited your options. this

is where the construction workers find you,

disturbing their foundations, taking it all

way too impersonally & rehearsing for your

own funeral. she’ll be right, mate. right?