How seriously fucked I was

opened like a cheap paper lotus

in a bowl of tap water.

Slowly. But fast enough to watch

and get the point

and then get on with things.

No need to ponder it.

There’s an ominous pleasure

doing the laundry

or randomly neatening

the meaningless objects

that say too much about you.

Coming back from the 7-11

I wonder how long I can

come back from the 7-11,

or sit in the same chair,

or follow invisible paths

that are just the human

version of a hamster wheel,

knowing full well the answer:

till you die, fucker, till you die.