Are you Richard?
—Paolo
Javier
For some reason I feel cheap today. I have the
reason I want to stay with.
Friends are attractive
or whatever. Friday
night I stayed home and slept.
I don’t seem to be able to.
My philosophies are just
in this particular environment. It’s what I want to
stay with Sunday morning.
Not here in church or
this particular environment. With crazies buzzing
every ten or fifteen minutes. Somebody with a
gun at the door.
Maybe. I present myself to
whomever or whatever runs this place, 100%
melancholy. It is the
best way to live? Besides
maintaining, keeping.
I should be doing so now?
Isn’t that cute? It’s
a stupid question. Stupid.
People banging on the box at all hours. And
I go to the trouble of attempting to separate
the sounds of pain or panic from the sounds
of joy or relief.
Years ago I’d be in church
presenting myself to whomever or whatever
runs this place. Now
I search all the drawers
for batteries. Things
are run down. The check-
book lies naked next to a pair of broken earbuds.
The television only works on eccentricity. And
I’m in shock. Maybe
I’m in shock. An incoherence
that everyone mistakes for unfriending. For being
a bastard. Not
belonging to whomever or whatever.
I use this box of pain to separate myself. Or each
sound a car makes is a recording. I am the legacy
of these imaginings.
My desire is the wastebasket
no one dares empty. A
snapshot of the whatever.
All these nothings in a pile on a desk inside a heart-
beat.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
