Quod erat faciendum

i took what he humbly offered
and flushed them down the toilet.
all of them, down and down.
i didn’t care for him at all, or maybe
too much. i bet
he was nothing to me and he
was using me, too. that’s fine.
but i should have gone with the
good Sweaty Hours ‘stead of
not bulging from these
perforated sweatless caskets peaking, peeking.
i wonder if the clock checks on me, too,
and all that we despise about ourselves.
doth it keep notes of early ruin?
will it count down or calm back
to days i apologized to his knuckles
and the knuckles of his friends?
his mistake was sleeping sturdy
on our thinning ice, our bedroom.
bed ogres to the ones allured.
allegorica for the easily amused.
we wrote sonnets to buffer music.
skeeter! skeeter! are you starting
to have doubts?– push ’em back!
push ’em back, bester! we can’t be
having second thoughts here.
this here space is reserved for the breathing.
so let breathe, though we stutter,
and we type and delete,
type and delete. i’ve made my waves
too early for early. everything that stinks here
sinks now, so sink into it. comfort,
comfort is killer on the sheets.
comfort is horrendous. can’t live
without it. i can feel the Lithium
roaring in my belly. they rage to keep
me from raging. i lick at its
red-vining heel. it is my master.
i am but some cow to milk.
some dead cow who cries for
pasture. (my posture betrays me.)
let the fat man dream.
let the fat man dunk.
i hear them all talk about their fake
friends, friends they’ve never met,
relationships blown out of
proportions, because validity is
questionable here, reality intensely
boring here– it is but a let down here,
the opposite of silk. i think i have
better relation-sharks than them,
but do i really? what do i have?
and what were we willing to share anyway?
just some purple-laced words for
blackened glasses, phony words,
some hastily brandished keys and
texts. i wish i could take them out
to the light, show them off
to the world. i wish i could kneel
and beg and kiss at the middle
of the busy highway, or barter
while the unemployed dart around
with their funny Envelopes. i have
one or plenty of those, too. i think
i left them in the second bedroom
i now rent out as storage space.
(i do need the spare.) i crumble
my sun-dripped sleepless Calendars– they have
no use to me now. no use to me ever.
only carving goddesses, and work-life
balances, and toppling jaggernaughts and
ziz, and going down the dirty rabbit holes,
happy Sinks, make sense– those usually
calm the balrug back to sleep,
back to my brother, the lethe.
persephone was a fool, but I made
some funny choices, too, so she laughs
at me while tending to her funny garden
of death and dying. i would water them, too.
instead, am hanging with hestia and her hearth.
she makes the worst s’mores but i love chocolates
that much, too much. i leave only to attend
boring office meetings and send even more
boring e-mails addressed to people i think
only exist in theory. i can’t see from the
barred rectangles. i bet the marine life lies ahead,
silent, and cold eternal, but living eternal. i heard
that’s the secret to their long life, freezing
for most of our centuries. but summer is about,
and summer moonwalks with the trumpeters.
and summer triggers my alone time, looking
for more aurum beetles on isles deserted.
how could i be so uncomfortable both
in days spent landlocked to my computer keys
and nights spreed-sheeted ‘long mystery misery towns?
i have Five Suitors but they all bore me.
i still feel nada like i pray to nada nada.
i will club them all to death and dying.
march couldn’t end sooner.
i miss my august and his storms.
(i wallow at his hand.)

he’s oblivious. to my all.

i’m a vacation.
and he just came home from one,
still doesn’t need

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