about Sunday morning

The way I feel now, I did not feel when I woke up two hours ago. I woke up, ashes for eyes, marble head. Now signs give me an all-clear. I’m here now—not in waiting for something else, not in service to tomorrow.

 

about drifting empathy

One morning I cut down a nuisance sapling and pulled a couple of tall, ugly weeds in the alley. Then a guy came by, pulled out a piece of cardboard from between the trash cans, and made himself at home where the weeds had been. Looked like he needed an hour or so to regain some of his senses. I didn't mind much—a lot of people walk by there on Saturdays to go to the farmer's market, but they can just ignore him, which they did. But after he collected the remains of his shattered psyche and metabolized enough of the sunshine pounding in his veins to get on his feet and move on, he left the box there.

 

Such a tiny thing, I'm ashamed I gave it any thought.

a note for a Saturday in spring

His ears filled with teeth that told him what to do.

 

The boss to beat to go to the next level. Beat him a little dead to get there. His body comprised God numbers. God-like he was not.

 

Do not talk to friends, do not join dying conversations. This works. Drugged, pharmacy never cared, left to live a life seeing the air move. Security failed if you are alive and for employment with nowhere else to go.