Sleep in. Treasure your body, radiating beneath covers and blankets and half awakened hibernation. Your world is your bed and the world is good. It hugs you back and you are a cattail, fluffy and ready to bend to the wind.
Technically, it is advised that you spend today making food. As the weekend nears you forget this, among your many other things to do. You won’t go to a grocery store on a Sunday—to pass by the mother’s grabbing things for tonight’s dinner, for the game, bags of chips whisked off shelves and into infinite checkout lines. You’d rather be hungry than dead.
Sunday is for homework. You have rested on Saturday, and the Sabbath; it’s really a matter of perspective. You reward yourself handsomely for very little work. This is acceptable. Your dishes are piling up, and you know that you will end up with no lunch packed for tomorrow.
Read. It doesn’t matter if you read Peter or Margaret or The Wind In the Willows. Read trash cans. Imbibe something.
Sunday is they day you would be trite, or naive, or cliché. Be a part of a movement you’ve never heard of, be new in being old, sympathetic, erratic, overtly and overwhelmingly sincere. Be new sincere. Be worried about the amount of asphalt in Wyoming. Be excellent.
I trapped a wasp
I know that suffering
between window panes
is wrong but yours is less important
or maybe I have hands
you have wings and poison.
Latches and plastic and
I dont know I just had to
separate myself from this risk
Eggs are by fair examination, ignored for their graciousness. Crack open yellow suns of hope and bubble in a fry pan on low. Make sure you eat the yoke, bear the yoke, be the yoke. Yoke. You know.
Re: go through and delete the meme emails you’ve gotten. Savior each, and discard. Cats should not plug up your virtual world. The virtual world is infinite, feline and impartial. Research suggests the internet knows you. It recognizes who you are. It just doesn’t care.
You’re already here bathing in the warm orange light. Down cracked sidewalks, sweating through a work layer, free. You know this is bad–forever, for all. You haven’t even opened a loyalty card, but here it is in your palm. And you want the Sierra Turkey. You’re here, with “work friends” who will one day be three-dimensional-non-holographic real friends. Someday you won’t need a baguette to talk. Panera. We are full and broken and somehow guilty.
Come back to work and sit down. Sit and tilt your head at a thirty degree angle. You are a plane of existence. This plane will hide your ambivalence, you are all and you are insignificant. Work, and do not check your social media for now.
Curl into your shell. Here is a couch and lie on it. Your comfort. You are a wounded animal tail to tip in your burrow. Try to find a corner in your body to hide in. A lump. Put yourself away from your fingertips and make sure there is enough for tomorrow.
Reevaluate modernism. When is the last time you tried to draw? Last year? Second martini? Attempt to push something with your drawing. Flatten your perspective. You’re Cezanne. You’re Picasso. You’re all those nonwhite nonmen. No mention.
Forget your lunch. Today, you’re eating from the candy bowl. There is shame in that. Also, Jen pays for all that candy. You should take Jen out to lunch.
Daydream about another world–apply somewhere else. Somewhere they might just be terrible, but better and delicious. Make it somewhere no one wants to go. Somewhere that should be cheap, but isn’t. Make sure to try to go somewhere there are no foodies. If you get it, you can see if you can make it in the real world–where fries are on salads.
Read CAConrad. This is a plug. Everyone centers themselves somehow. Read CAConrad. Be, for a brief second, yourself. Love your dirt.
Do not make dinner. Avoid the concept of making food. Have it brought to you, on platters of grape leaves. It has appeared magically, from nowhere. There is no industry behind what you digest. You are divine.
They won’t give me more blankets in the E.R. and the nurse pours ice around me. My sweat chills me and I am shaking, convulsing, moving the bed. My teeth don’t chatter I’ve clamped them down and they feed me drugs. Drugs–I am still cold, my sweat half-frozen on my neck from the ice. They say you float but it’s merely a device and my muscles stop and the pain stops and I realize I haven’t been breathing.
I think of french fries and I see green mold twisting their insides, my insides, a french fry is mold and ash. I am punished when I eat. If it doesn’t return, come up choking, it beats my intestines in a rock-‘um-sock-‘um game of gastric pain–pouring out at the end. I came in vomiting so they gave me diarrhea. A doctor tells them not to give me tylenol. A doctor tells them I need to swallow the tylenol and keep it down. Each shift I have to make my argument, retching, that I need it pumped into me, a drip. I get a drip and the shift changes.
The nurse sees me and assumes, and lazy, does not wake me. I do not get my fever reducers. Cold, my dream is a soaking flannel suffocation. The temperature rises. I wake but I don’t remember much–a nurse checks me after waiting–a button–I pressed a button and waited–or did my mother get her? Mom is on a cot. My fever is 105 and rising. They put a mask on me. A doctor comes in I have told you already about the drugs. He pats my knee after I’ve stopped shaking and for the first time in over a year I do not flinch, there is no pain.
This is how I go to the ICU.
Hour After Happy Hour Review
I am very happy to announce that two of my poems, Letters to Chris (I) & (II) have been selected for the first issue of The Hour After Happy Hour Review, which will be coming out (for free download!) at the end of March. Check out the website for more details!
My home froze.
I gulped down a church
teeth cracked. Clutched
cold fingers before in
march, stasis, undulating.
Here we have stopped.
And the whirlpool?
Held, like the sheets,