Bloated fat, red headed pig master. Kicked out wings. Spoke like butter or gold teeth. Like fishes scales. Tall buildings and their shitty attitudes. Cement gooey from summer sex. Sandcastles, look out. The big bad wolf is in town.
Sick and distant, walls built for not only my protection,
but the protection of others.
Mostly the protection of others.
I wish they’d all have trusted me.
Noticed the signs.
Moved along without note.
It would be so much easier to live
or not.
To choose.
To be free in the way that trees are.
That death is.
Worms.
I can feel them inside me.
Rooting.
Rooting.
So full of hate and fear and sadness.
Inside me.
Confusion and confusion and confusion and confusion. Hats, worn swaggered. Eyes, also swaggered. Release me of this foolish weightless. Crane your necks to else. My breath breathing breath into blood. One. Bones and muscles separate. Teeth float feet above the disconnected jawline. Energy flows. Eyes open to confusion and confusion and confusion.
The fear hits and twists in my gut. Arms tight. I smile because that’s my body saying “Brace yourself, something new and important is happening. You need to pay attention.”
not stuck,
just IN traffic.
you feel stuck?
open your eyes.
we are moving outward
at an unknown speed
and you’re pissed
because you’re going to be late for a job
that you bitch about
constantly.
we came from hydrogen.
do you even think about that shit?
do you even wonder?
or is it all tv shows about people who can’t seem to get along?
pardon me if I seem condescending.
if you didn’t understand.
sorry twice.
stuck in traffic.
you say.
stuck.
and you can’t figure out why you aren’t happy.
stuck.
like a fly in a spider’s web
except not.
except there is no immediate danger
no matter what they tell you.
(writer’s note: there’s also a chance that the web is just not moving
enough with they spider’s weight
for us to know for sure).
we are made of particles and in a constant state of explosion and
we’re worried about gas prices.
about magazines and clothes and other people.
but we are born of hydrogen.
we are intricate moments.
we are probable odds.
statistically alive.
so far.
stuck in traffic?
no.
just waiting.
just texting this to myself.
Not wanting to win is such an odd idea to me.
I am owed.
That’s what they told me
(Read sarcastically for full effect)
For, oh, I don’t know…
My entire life?
And now I’m 27 and it’s all about being nice
But actually
Nice.
I’m pretty sure that involves a lot of losing.
No more
Saving my pretty
Face.
At least I’m not 40.
I think I may have a chance.
Trapped in the body of a high schooler, insecure and gawky. All sorts of elbows and guts and blood flow. Still.
All of the sudden The whizzes and pops of the filthy record Started to make perfect sense.
No one ever says
“If it wasn’t for the good times
You wouldn’t feel
So bummed
Right now.”
It’s always some
light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel
bullshit.
Some preferred perspective of blame
and justification.
