THE SPEED OF ASTEROIDS IN A RESTLESS GALAXY*
I ALWAYS BELIEVED that, because my second toe was longer than my biggest one, i would have good luck. that's what they say, isn't it?
well, they're wrong.
IF IT'S TRUE that rabbits can die of loneliness, aren't human beings frightfully close to bunnies? i'll be frank: i sure as hell am. loneliness is the worst on sundays.
it was your adult decision to have an unconfirmed faith and confuse the few people in your social circle with the word agnostic, so while your devout friends go to church and feel the hands of their holy entities embrace them, you watch your stale coffee drip at an incredibly annoying rate and feel nothing but the searing heat of your coffee mug embracing your hands.
and so, you feel a raging internal strife: sunday football, those ****** lifetime movies, extra sleep? you don't read the news on sundays, though you occasionally skip to the comics and find yourself thinking that your jokes are better.
but, because it is sunday and all of your friends are out, no one is there to hear how hilarious you really are, even if you might be a riot.
yes, sundays are deadly.
I CANNOT STOP letting myself unravel into a belligerent fool, with a mind like a cloudy mid-weekday, heart like a grandfather clock, heart like a pothole, mind like black ice. i open my arms and let the blows land where they will, i open my arms and clench my fists, i open my arms and strike back. and strike back. and strike back.
i grit my teeth. i tell myself, do not let yourself bleed more than they are.
if there is the glint of metal, pull out yours. weakness does not exist.
weakness does not exist.
weakness does not exist.
I AM WEAK for reality tv shows, sleeping pills, alcohol, and ***. i hate late night reality tv. i find solace in knowing that these insane rich people (with problems that all stem from materialism) are maybe, possibly, worse off than me.
the sleeping pills never work, but i have acquired a taste for them, right alongside my merlot as i tell myself that i a decent, cultured, existence.
THE SPEED OF ASTEROIDS IN A RESTLESS GALAXY must never be completely accurate. the forever-growing universe, i think, could never allow the measurement of extraterrestrial debris to be anything but astronomically incorrect but also astronomically easy to believe. and so i wonder: do we grow with the cosmos, or do we become more microscopic?
and, really, whose eye is it on the other side of the microscope?
HOW COLD COULD THE ARCTIC POSSIBLY BE when i could call this city a tundra?
when my mind is black ice that simply cannot chip away?
A TRANSCENDING PURPLE IS THE COLOR of bad karma. shades of a silvery blue, a few flashes of red. there is no green. honestly, i think, even though so much of the world is composed of green, i think it's such an extraneous, meaningless color. green might be the color of happiness.
but it might also be the shade of hidden calamity.
YOU COULD CONSIDER the tall, dark, and handsome bartender with the sultry gaze and the wolfish grin that is peculiarly attractive. you could also consider that oxford comma. tall, dark, and handsome or tall, dark and handsome?
you could consider him, this strange being that should not be considered because such kinds of people do not fit into everyday, or really any day.
I CANNOT KISS anyone without feeling the very human urge to bite their lips off.
sometimes, i succumb.
AND SO NOW I SIT, slumped against this garbage: and i feel like a king. i feel that this stench is the stench of a monarch. but maybe i am a dictator. maybe less, i am a peasant.
so now i sit, bleeding, covered in bruises. yes, weakness exists, and right now all i want is an ego boost by watching reality tv shows about ignorant people of wealth, and take my pills, drink my wine. i let the rain wash away the filth in my blood (but for that to happen, i would need to bleed out completely) like it is my servant, like i am worthy of something, something, anything.
i let the rain soaking my clothes become my faded religion. i am missing a shoe; i can see my second toe poking out imposingly.
then there is one of those clear umbrellas above me, distorting the city lights and the rain and the sky, the back of a stranger. and i know what tomorrow is, i know what happens to rabbits when they are left alone.
so i call out to that stranger.
AND THEN IT IS SUNDAY, my mind like a cloudy mid-weekday, my eye like a black hole, my heart like a black hole, my life—a black hole.
him, a maddening shade of green, and a hypothesis about the other side of abyss.