wake up. it’s 1990. it’s 2014. it’s 2017 and 2018.
there are no more doors to open, we’re snug inside
for the ride of our lives. scratch that. i’m stuck here
alone for the ride of my life. may it not last another
lifetime. you assure me that you’ve been here before,
that you know something of me, and you offer me
condolences and a drink. make it stiff. or better yet,
i remove you from my head before my head starts
believing. how to find the truth when you trust
no one? it’s a pretty tawdry nightmare. take
that window for example. there’s a fan sitting
on the sill, seemingly stirring some air in or out
but as if the electricity in here comes only in
dribs and drabs. are the walls caving in? i take
a sip of my diabetic soda and try to imagine they
are not. or that the room is breathing, like i hope
i am. am i? this thing called trapped inside a coffin
may last as long as the life of a vampire, i imagine,
but that is no worthwhile imagination. put your
imagination to real work in such circumstances.
is there really such a thing as being this alone?
i ask this of my best friend the big cockroach
before slamming an un-shoed foot into it. get
your intimacy wherever you can because
pressing no flesh (i’ve found) brings the
depths of death. which distends the
hot breath of this dystopic coffin
to the point of holding its lonely
innards into a stasis. i validate
such a life and the prison that
contains it by breathing with
it. this house with no mouth
is not appreciative of such
mocking. i flatten the air
into a square the size of
the small space in which
i live, folding it into tiny
rectangles that meta
phorically mock each
cubic unit of whatever
air fits in here, elongating
time into a limbo of long
pauses with no gasps. i
am hoping that you can ask
me before all of this is gone
how long it took and how
did i possibly endure it.
how such slim swirls of
hope somehow cohabit
this place is the most
confounding of all of
these, my mysteries.
i ask this of my best friend the big cockroach
before slamming an un-shoed foot into it. get
your intimacy wherever you can because
pressing no flesh (i’ve found) brings the
depths of death. which distends the
hot breath of this dystopic coffin
to the point of holding its lonely
innards into a stasis. i validate
such a life and the prison that
contains it by breathing with
it. this house with no mouth
is not appreciative of such
mocking. i flatten the air
into a square the size of
the small space in which
i live, folding it into tiny
rectangles that meta
phorically mock each
cubic unit of whatever
air fits in here, elongating
time into a limbo of long
pauses with no gasps. i
am hoping that you can ask
me before all of this is gone
how long it took and how
did i possibly endure it.
how such slim swirls of
hope somehow cohabit
this place is the most
confounding of all of
these, my mysteries.
