—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.
