Drunk at a bus stop last night.

Midnight Strikes me at the corner of icons.
I just wish the bus would come.
& brandish my headphones against the night
and its mouthful of wanderers.
Seattle's needle fingering my eyes
with orange-drunk nostalgia
I imagine the saucer as a wildly disproportionate hamburger,
Its bottom bun is jellyfish lettuce
all held up with a matrix of toothpicks
and in the center
one phosphorescent spine
stabilizes my appetite for combining disparate genres.
Space travel;
Ground beef;
and submarining.

I wanted this to be more haunting than it was

This sickness is an angry pinwheel on the back porch,
the hissing of pipes in the basement,
a shivering window in the night.

The bright gray gets sucked up by hanging rain
converts light into fog
and fog into conversation.
Words get sticky and you have missed your puddle
the conversation bus stops
beeps incessantly,
lets out the air,
echoes out an empty destination,
in a voice rehearsed every 28 minutes.

Mouths snore into another subject
and that rain just won't come down like it's supposed to
like a bushy-tailed spiral feeling
or a transient raccoon scuttling under the porch.
The air is hissing like so many suspended waterways
and the glass gatekeepers sigh
refusing to let the wind break.