it can only be called hell after the fact--

it's impossible to entertain otherwise.

so what the hell is hell to you then--that

takes too much energy.

art imitates nothing, you can't even

pay respects to yourself.

as inertia's demoralizing vigil goes from

you laying there--to watching yourself

lay there, when being that body is too

much.

back & forth--totally indifferent to that

back & forth ever again.

seasons are a knocked over lamp, a

collapsed shade--a meal tasted in parts.

after-weathers.

a bed & a hovering vitality,

superintelligently breaking down

Zoloft.

finding yourself in the shower & realizing

there are basic steps.

that light hurts--not as it would a

vampire, but one late to its call.

caked in something earthier than mud--

you could taste it & it's sickening.

light not the absence of, dark not the

absence of--just absence.

as if overnight you say: now I'm going to

take physical paralysis for a walk.

it was advanced age at eighteen years old.

it knows everything about you, you are

made to know how it feels.