Same Boat

Monday, February 13, 2017

I’ve been running around like—well
not a chicken, but a person
with its head cut off.

Twitching on the ground, that is.
I’d spent Sunday listening to Janáček
and drinking Molotov

cocktails at a park that overlooks
an empty river that runs through
the village near the croft

I now call home. Full of leaves it was
and sparse—raspy, hoarse, I mean.
Then I trod softly home,

and today has been a significant b.
just in terms of neurons
popping and snapping

as I lie here prone under cold
and cloudless skies. What is
the meaning of life?

I have no clue. I made mistakes
yesterday I can’t revise/undo—
nor, it seems, can you.

• • •
 

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