Conscience Round

Walking to the dojo as night falls in tall, uneven stripes, observing myself observing myself, performing for an audience of one, of many.

You point out where you live on a map app but I already knew the name of your neighborhood because I tracked what direction you took from two different stations on two separate occasions and triangulated the likely location of your house.

The fact of the matter is, I overthought it.

See through me.

Afternoon, Tokyo.

Compromise is a good word, but compromised isn’t?

A fair fight, a sentence to death.

Give me a little more credit.

He starts talking, agape and eros and I think, oh no, he knows.

AI-generated poetry is preferable to human-written poetry?

Pylon, python.

False, that I walk through a gray Tokyo evening, arms out like a windswept umbrella, crying to Jeff Buckley.