This is hell. Only, we don’t know we’re dead, yet. We wander in and out of the same three rooms, pretending we’re okay, some of us are Prince and Princess getting ready for the ball. Others sit mute, watching images flicker on TV. The TV is always on.
I can’t eat anymore without covering my shirt in crumbs, dropping the hand that holds a hot cup of coffee. Just because. This guitar and drum set is making me cry.
In November, everyone goes to sleep. None of us will wake up in time for spring harvest.
Oh, Luna, where are you to sing me to sleep? I break all the rules, to get to the point, your eyes as they swell and bleed phosphorous lights, techno fog, cradling turnips and banana peels, the beginning of life, as frogs mill about at your feet.
i can’t do this again but i don’t have the energy to say, “no, thank you”
i can only listen to music by a faceless man from Mexico City, and plan the days ahead when i can sink my withered roots inside soft dough…and forget
why won’t you write?
who are you trying to punish,
me or yourself?
Originally published at https://carolbankswebercoggie.wordpress.com on November 30, 2020.