It’s midnight, and he finds that it’s impossible to sleep. He isn’t exactly sure why, though he suspects it’s because his mind has wound itself into a series of complicated knots. There’s an abundance of loose ends as well, and he wonders which one carries the most weight. 

Another black kid got shot by a white cop.

ANOTHER BLACK KID GOT SHOT BY A WHITE COP.

ANOTHERBLACKKIDGOTSHOTBYAWHITE COP.

ANOTHERBLACKKIDGOTSHOT

ANOTHERBLACKKIDGOTS

Ten . . .

Nine . . .

Eight . . .

Seven . . .

you are like the sun:

oblivious to time’s existence

wake up at noon to eat dessert

and watch television reruns.

you are sleepless nights

and grease stained fingers

covered in cuts and bruises and scabs.

you are like the war

Like clockwork revaluations to new forgotten ideas lined up in my mind like young adult novels on my ratty old grey bookcases, I live stories lined up in many different tenses    dog-eared identities taking place in crises fueled hourglass clocks, if there is one thing I’ll never run ou