I’m not lightning or thunder, but one storm at a time, I word myself from disaster. Black is the new—no, wait— I was about to use cliche in a way I’d regret later. My sadness is the same as yours, my happiness the same, too. And if you should ever call the suicide hotline I’ll pick up and inform you "I’m listening, I’ve been there, but that’s all there is to give you, besides the sound of falling rain. “
How much do you pay when you pay attention, if you’re staring into yourself? I grieve for myself, thinking I can do anything. I set my mind to sinus pain, excel at drudge and daymare. They awarded me the Bronze Star for irritable brain syndrome. I’ve paid thirty two years tending to my awkward garden, planting panic daily, over-watering migraines, failing to yield daisies.
Over and over I alter absolutely most of me but I swear I’ll never rewrite my lack of motivation. I type the word “Advancement” then backspace eleven times, while converting my resume into vortex format. I seek out the position "Assistant Manager of the Inferiority Complex.” My skills include weight and gain. My most sellable asset? That my cage is a happy cage.
Some call my disorder an attention deficit. I prefer to diagnose it as a forcefield for what bores me. I forgo epiphany to attain abyss and cola. I buy to look less fat, more with the time, more overjoyed. My outsides surprise me in the dressing room’s mirror. Not only do I hate me, I’m aware that I hate me. My insides are worth nothing but their weight in spirit junk.
I post a new update, "Wow, I’ll never be young again." I “Like” my own status. Staring into the white space, I almost glimpse the moment I Google “natural painkillers” while taking an awful bite from a red delicious. I left it on the windowsill. Every day it dries more, browns more, withers, weakens while I choose to never move it. Fill my grave not with my body but with search terms never dreamed of.
The power of positive thought works great for corporations. By applying the Secret one’s parents buys one’s I-Phone. I Tweet in the mirror: "my soul looks on, poor." Dr. says “Nevermind ever overcoming your expensive living habit.” PayPal tries to hug me with hungry, tiny arms. I’m ordinary sad, like death is ordinary truth for the animals of God.
My white skull echoes hymns down the corporate ladder. "What’s the deal with bones?" I joke beside liquid, "why are they so hiding?" I own infinite pens, my friends are very computer. "See that there, son?" I say to my coroner, "that there’s a woman and contained in her cubicle are the secret dreams of skin.” Compensation: no pay within the khaki graveyard.
I’m like Atlas, but my globe is my education. Listen to my broke tale: better yet, why not read my debt-paean, not featured in Ploughshares. I’m an expert in the field of high sodium consumption, a guru in the sector of contemplating smoking. I transcend the power of now, chanting “Adderral, Facebook,” kneeling within my cathedral of the Immaculate Migraine.
I’m trapped in a telescope. If you look, then you’ll spy me in my little sailboat adrift through guilty stars. My house is the warehouse floating by Andromeda. Meet me by the conveyor belt: I’ll be the space cowboy filling Amazon orders, stuffing boxes with gravestones covered in ghost glitter. I am that working stranger, yet I am light years apart from that working stranger.
There is plenty of time to die when we’re asleep. I want to sleep with you. The night is a wilderness. Wild ponies of Assateague of me loving you as you float naked beneath these bedsheets. I think, “Quiet midnight, melt a quiet icicle from a shivering tree.” Spring forgets us and that’s okay. Please breathe with me, warmly, with my quiet, hungry heart.