appointment reminder i'm scheduling the hairs on my arms to grow. weeds in my father's yard ask the important questions like "when are we going to burn the system to the ground?" i tell the grass this week i have to let the doctor tell me not to worry about fingernails & ginko trees. in a parallel world i am revolutionary. my blood is made of pewter & pledges. i rush out into the street & free all the lamp posts. here, in my real life, i have less & less allegiances. right now all i trust is the color grey & the space between your breasts. i will inevitably forget but that is why metal birds exist. i open my phone which is slowly becoming a diety. my device plans out the next hundred years without me. date & time can get me through most mornings. a calendar nailed to a tree on walnut street. the reminder says, "we require your body." i think "good take it!" when the day is over there will be more tin foil hats to knit with future children. there will be a bed for us to make puppets in. i will still need to find a place to store the jars of noise stolen from that one night we shouted into the bare winter forest. don't worry. i confirm the future or is that just a knot in a balloon? have you seen these new screens? a mirror without the mirror opens blossom-like. tomorrow is a distance i measure in leaves.