I’ve been meaning to pick up a bag of lettuce on my way home.
—John Ashbery
hang on i’ve
gotta get
lost in this.
there. that
doesn’t feel
terribly safe,
now, does
it? is goal
achievable?
why, i already
feel lost, and
come to think
of it, is that
really what
i’m asking
for at pre-
sent? for
words to
be drugs?
to be the
drug?
am i in un-
charted terr-
ory, yet? map’s
glitches what
we’re looking
for, here?
nuh uh.
i know
my gen-
eral vicinity.
it’s just that
in relation to
anybody it’s
got nobody.
like valium
to vertigo,
thinking
it’s gonna
be just the
sauce for some
swagger, when
instead, it’s got
me curled up
into a knot
riding the
floor like
a wave,
crying
out for
gravity.
all too
literal.
so may-
be the fog
isn’t exactly
the smartest
safety net
(forgive me,
my blessèd
city.). may-
be a trance
is more of a
dancefloor
aspiration,
maybe
deeper into
the dark
forest
isn’t the
right
direction.
concentrate,
eyes up, off
the feet,
stand up
straight,
still...is
this better?
i’ll not
blaspheme
the sooth-
ing fogroll,
but as it
lifts, i can
instead
rejoice,
focus,
get to
know
what i am,
gather my
bearings,
pause, set
coordinates,
and only
then,
move
forward.
