there is some bottom to these depths;

there is some bottom to these depths;
i wonder if they follow my words,
or i follow theirs?

what follows
if not following
itself;
what draws
but inks,
leaving tints
about what may,
what june;
i follow these and hope
they wallow in themselves
so i may, afraid, away,
walk in thought around
and leave no impression
of the sole,
merely follow
and forgottten.

i wind my time in wanderings of the self,
though selfish that may be, i
find myself through these times,
and hope to be in them one day,
instead of looking out;
as though a mountain in movement
of the rushing rock,
held but caught in constance.

there is a gnat,

there is a gnat,
which follows me.
he investigates
the lip of
toiletbowl
while i
release, and
he looks
inside, afraid
of stream
and floats
upward with
great haste
to avoid me;
i cannot help
but feel he
follows
in hopes
i’ll soon be
deceased,
so he may
nit-pick
at which
side to begin devouring.

but
he follows me,
this friend,
and we enjoy
the blank scenery/
the mountainesque
landscape
of an apartment dwelling,
full-bright
with white walls and
wooden desk,
with brightest screen
in warm glow/
and i feel
he enjoys
this,
though wants
to be led out.

i can never sleep when i need to,
and need to when i can never sleep.

it’s hard to sleep
when i know there’s much to do
and all’s ahead, while i’d rather not
wait, i’d rather go
and find my way in time;
it’s much less a worry
of missing, as a knowledge of
more;
i’d rather go than stay here, but
i feel i’d be better with knowing
all i’ve yet to learn.

i was deleting these movies
i’d never watch/the titles
making more of a stand
than their files’ contents;
and,
upon deleting
the one entitled, “california,”
i noticed/
notched a sense of emotion
for the inevitable withdrawal
from all thoughts of moving there,
and this image,

of the girl
perhaps sneezing/laughing/i see her crying
and the man,
as i press, “yes,” and
let all pass;
then, the second,
or the first of files,
shows him lonely,
and i feel he is me.

but,
he could be travelling,
lending his time toward
some other endeavour,
one which may lean him to
aisle,
ready to remove himself
from this vessel,
instead of perched
upon the window’s cold
steel,
waiting
to find where you may look back
and believe that was the best place to be.