suture plans/virtual lands

days on end,
i see people i can't look at
for reasons unknown i feel disappointed
in god and clothes;

four days in a row,
i have not yet yanked my head off
supposedly i'm better off without smoking
but i only feel worse;

awareness of the self,
in vacant situations and
kissing couples in train stations
i play the same song four, five times
hoping it will speak to me
and make me feel alive;

i suspect,
i see everyone unfolding
everyone responding
into blackened windows
and old sheets of paper
but myself's been wiped out
between tight hands
around my life's neck;

i suspect, once again,
something missing.
on these paths there's only faces
of smog and miscellaneous 
talking to us in languages 
all corrupt;

momentary rawness,
i uneven my steps ahead
in this century i may fall,
i may regret all choices
made in wicked sunsets
underneath a loose promise.