We tug the curtains closed at the end of the day,
though it doesn’t keep out the darkness for long
when tomorrow goes missing. Our makeshift shelter
sways in the breeze as the fan above the stove
wages war against my cooking and the TikTok dance
that goes with it until the dog said, “Ruh-roh,”
while in the middle of a caper, except I don’t
have to go anywhere to see ghosts. This life
has never felt natural, like the tree that seemed
so tall when I was a kid.

Smoke drifts. Our childhood is a homunculus.
There’s a story about the self but also other ones
while the computers watch me looking.
My passive income stream is the bird feeder,
counting out the Klonopin, as plastic accumulates
in the bloodstream and on the beaches, then back
into the seagulls that try to eat my French fries
at the boardwalk. That’s as narrative as it gets,
but it’s actually a circle if a circle is something broken.
All things turn to sand.

CUTTING BOARD

We ran out of money right when my haircut was slapped with a tariff,
but I guess that’s what I get for feeling so far away after I couldn’t find
the nearest starting line or extra tourniquets with every limb a mess.
I am a bag. I’m slightly confused by parfait, although that’s not the worst of it
as we search for whatever eludes the cameras in their small, dark domes.

Wolves pursued the herd for miles. Eventually, some friends fell away;
some family too. We escaped the worst of it, yet still came back
to an eviction notice taped to our door because we’re not the owners.
Suddenly, the algorithm is following a new path like a white contrail drawn
through an orange sunset as the glass on every screen shatters.

In any case, the land is ruined, as if this is a polar expedition, and I’m chewing
on a live wire. The rain won’t wash it away because the poison is in the rain.
Baby and bathwater. Loose me from the leash. The storm keeps getting delayed, which isn’t to say I have a method, more like random moments of hope, at least until the sharks figure out how to climb into this leaking dinghy.

The rest of the time we’re just vibing, even if that’s no excuse for emptying
the birdfeeder. Too much back, not enough forward. Please stick to the topic.
The sheets are made in India, the Apple Watch in China, and the blueberries
are grown in Peru. I try to stay loving, except for that one guy. May all beings
be free from suffering and wake up each morning without constant worry.

A line of ants heads directly toward my pile of sugar the way wildflowers
create a flyway for the bees, but I wouldn’t call it a smooth crossing,
more like turbulence for the skull or soul. It might be Topeka, yet death
is everywhere. So, too, the keystroke monitorring and mandatory naps
as a red Camry does donuts in the Target parking lot after closing.

On certain days, the sky felt like a heavy lid, so I kept low until the clouds
passed over. What happened to that playground? From the top of the swing’s arc,
we could almost see the graveyard or the archive. That was in Washington, DC;
but don’t quote me because it might be someone else. We always fall short of time
with its saline crest, whether slow drip or flood, unmooring us from this world.

ALAN GILBERT is the author of the ongoing epic poem, The Everyday Life of Design (Winter Editions, 2024), as well as an art writer and essayist. Gilbert is the website editor for BOMB and adjuncts in Columbia University's MFA Writing Program.