my man Mike judges himself against a backdrop of slaughter; you catch one, he catches infinity

“You talk to Everyone!”

“i try to be kind to people, and say hello and shoot the brief breeze, but i don’t actually “talk” to many people, and when i do, we don’t discuss fishing gossip.”

“the vast majority of my life, i am alone with my own thoughts. it is a lonely life, yes, but i believe in what i do and who i am, and all i can do for now is keep doing that.”

“What do you do? Who are you?”

“i don’t do anything, and i am no-body and no-thing”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself”

“i’m not being hard, nor do i feel badly about myself or what i just said”
“i want to do even less”
“i want to be even less”
“i am lucky and gift’d and privileged beyond measure”

last night
i dreamt
of an ATM machine,
the slot from which
it dispenses receipts,
broken, choked
with the flirtatious
edge of cash.
last night
in my dream,
a walking
cavern of need,
i surreptitiously snatched
a wad of cash
from the broken
placing this tangle
of cash and receipt
paper in my pocket,
i spent the rest
of my dream
too terrified to count
my stolen bounty.
waking back into
the dream of day,
i remain petrified
by my need,
its expression
of commerce.

i don’t actually think
myself mentally ill,
despite what doctors
have said. rather
think our very society,
sticky, eggs
on a bough,
that which is fevered.
though this thinking is
perhaps strongest
evidence of my maladaptive
mind, the concurrence
of swelling melt and
the jaw is on
a hinge,
the teeth,
buttered slick, and,

oh sweet bitter
rasping paradox,
your silken throat
mesmerizes me.

Morning brings
Midday, takes
from me,
returns with muddied
jaws, Despair.
Evening, elegant
though not
replaces Midday’s menace,
alights quietly,
dressed in
again allows Belief,

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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