Wednesday, February 18, 2015



Palm hurts.  Not so easy
to write.     Feel lately
that I am falling apart.

I am.  A bunch of
broken pieces and parts.
I’m not yet 40 and I just
wrote the t before the i

in the word it.
Wouldn’t it be easier
to type this?  To slip
so easily into the

computer?  Am I
slipping into a serious
bout of  . . . .     Sepia,
now balancing on the

back cushion of
Green Couch #2,
at my toes, the
farthest cushion

from me, the one I don’t
have behind my back
or underneath this
journal.  I’m just so creepy.

“Then sleep,” says the
voice inside of my head,
which, I have come to believe,
values rest much more than I do.