We'll go grab some coffee
from the place down the street,
where the old wooden floors
creak just beneath our feet.
Then we'll take our drinks out
for a walk through the park
where the moon shines enough light
to see each other in the dark.
We'll start mixin' things up
with the flask inside my coat.
The breezy wind ain't bad
once the heat hits our throats.
We'll share drinks at a bench,
joke about people passing by
and we'll hide behind trees
passing a bowl, getting high.
We'd explore a bit more
then watch an indie dramedy.
We'd forget about Trainspotting
and focus just on you and me.
We'll lie side by side,
as we will the rest of the night,
thinking of things to add
to the list of things we like
like all the chemicals
that make our bodies hum
and the facts that we are free
and that our nights are always fun.

Laughter is healing,
laughter is stealing,
adding back minutes to your life,
that you can spend with your kids and wife.

So be a fan of comedy,
or try a bit of dramedy,
trade funny stories with friends,
laughing is better than crying in the end.

when i'm feeling sick, i like to imagine.
that my body is the stage of an epic,
a critically-acclaimed netflix original wherein i am irrelevant to the outcome except in my crests and furrows and forests and plains. there is a beginning and a middle and an end made all the more satisfying by their inevitability. and that's just the flu.

i like to pretend that there's a reason. that there exists a narrative, some deeper statement held in contempt of a stone-faced court, a message that cannot ever be parsed in a language that could explain why i feel this way. or better yet, a comforting draped tapestry that replaces self-awareness with april showers steaming on a fevered forehead.

sometimes i'll think on it as i rest.
hacking up sandpaper diatribes and existing in that terrifying state of circadian purgatory that stretches every dimly-lit hour into a week of retching, violently exoteric solitude. i have a string of fairy lights painstakingly arranged across my wall, and focusing on their pretty bouncing motion drains me of ambition and fear until all that is left is the quiet embrace of constant but minor pain.

occasionally i think too ******* this.
then it's back from the battleground to the main event, a swelling dramedy of good versus evil because never could my ego be satisfied with the illogical attack of an organism that neither discriminates nor appreciates my tirades. there has to be a reason, karma or a deity or the whim of the universe that picked out me to feel so awful. i can't bear being anything except perhaps the protagonist in a cautionary comedy,
as the slapstick laugh track bites back as my joke and i fall flat on our jaded backs
and feel forsaken for the sake of
a fever that'll leave in a week
leaving me weak and

honestly? it's just really sweaty.
i'm baking. it feels like every bone and orifice in my body is aching. but that wouldn't make for the most entertaining diagnosis, now would it?