He dawned on himself
—Michael Price
Is my hair ironic
enough? I feel way
too good. Doomsday
is almost over. It’s
imp
ortant to never call anything
important. Is that
true?
The voice in my hand is
grief. My heart feels
it
should be celebratory,
the voice. All of the
voices
are now gone, except the
rattling window. I
remember
smooching. My right hand
is
camping. The bullshit
of such
sweet sorrow. I turn
over
in my grave (ugh). I
leave a light
on. The electricity
bill is
always under $5 anyway.
