by Riley Lalumendre, Contributor

Getting tea drunk in cramped street-corner apartments
Dirty fingernails moving back and forth in front of dilated pupils
Conversations held and experiences shared with walls whispering back and forth
The ashtrays serve their purpose as long as they can and overflow like a breached dam without anyone’s notice
That constant over your shoulder gaze always haunting
Things. Glorious things of no meaning pile around and around
Liquid gets transferred from one vessel to another, continuously and generously
Central lighting predetermines mood
I find myself shaking hands with former selves, my condolences to the dead
A constant state of becoming, a constant state of settling and going with what’s in front of “the self”
The self is all we will ever know.
Pure animal intent to put carvings into stone, brute force but a shallow wit always backing the stakes
Empty containers.
Finding Zen on the ceiling while laying in piles of dirty laundry
We are empty ships heading toward coastlines with names of which we have never heard
There are men getting blotto in near-to-empty bars together because it’s better to be alone together, while just across town women sit around flipping the pages of glossy magazines that have been lightly baptized with scents and fragrances with names more eloquent than my own.
Putting the truth sloppily and hurriedly jotted down into notebooks as to not let slip away
A single lit cigarette leading the way



  1. This is so vivid-it is dirty and I love it

  2. Awesomely done

  3. Rebecca Kramer says:

    very powerful words.

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LANDFILLS is a grassroots literary, arts and culture online collective based in Chicago. All work is original, except the featured images that accompany text posts (which are blatantly stolen from Complaints should be directed to Po via Twitter.
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