from 25-cent CASH by Jerimee Bloemeke

I get anxious when I’m transported somewhere else so much so
I need to step out for a cigarette and a little Five Star from the 200
ml. A matching couple walked by accenting the chirping of insects
and they went out, shook hands and talked for a minute or two
finding a relaxation in that exchange for it was ways out of themselves
the way words when spoken apparently erase them from one’s mind.
She had me considering the look of the sky as a surface I smiled at
like earlier in the day. Optimism fleets away thought a lot about.
A stretch, seen plain walls as more than blanknesses, staring at them blankly.
They could mean as much as the sky; more than its opposite, a framed
photo I took at the base of the Washington monument aimed straight upwards
that it is a stone bridge into the darkness at its end, is the only decoration
on the walls in this bedroom. Joseph Post’s painting (what it looks like
out the window of a moving train) (streaks of heavy color) rests on the wood
floor against the wall, next to the cello in its traveling case next to the stackable
filing cabinets with a folded up American flag I took with me everywhere
from a camping trip in north Florida, to New York, to a hallway
in my parents’ house, to the window on Governor, to here, where it will stay
not on display but put away forever. My desk lies dormant (but I type this up on it now)
topped by a cork board, a green glass pyramid and portable audio speakers (Frank Ocean)
for the wilderness. Dark jeans and a shirt are draped over a wooden chair
with a handle, which was by the dumpster at our previous apartment complex
parking lot. My computer is broken (I type this on Nikki-Lee’s)
but I don’t write on that anymore either (only to type up things), only by hand
on paper, sitting comfortably, either here or somewhere else.