I cut the orange in two and the two parties are not equal. I watch the driveway, study irregularities in market fluctuation, the bird humming at the feeder. It’s colder than yesterday. Very dark. I’ve been here now two years and haven’t received a letter. One hour of sleep before midnight is worth three in August. Do you know what I mean? Women in particular responded once to my advances. I’ve been researching Buddhism on my phone for twenty minutes. They say one thing exists in every hidden thing. Soon I will replace myself with the sound of a prayer bell application. Cigarettes drag time. I get news alerts: first the harbinger of the storm, followed by an icon of the sun covered in raindrops, then nothing to look forward to. Another coffee without milk. There’s no hurry. In a few hours a sprinkler system automatically operates. Someday somewhere I believe someone will depend on my presence at a recital or, more likely, their ride home. I wish there were more time to go back to school, read the classics, clean the pool. The doctor will arrive soon to walk me around the bend up in the road, pause at colonial gravesites. I could care. Gradually these fields broaden, brown, and we walk back.
In this room, hours pass, a slight
corruption of each previous
allotted time block—and probably
confirm failure and humiliation,
which though not ideal, I accept
as historically accurate. I’m sick
of lifestyle music, the thing between
awe and detachment which Hazlitt
defines as adrift. I clear my throat
remind myself, doors are locked,
the ashtray half-full. Unless otherwise
noted, light falls from the television—
accompanies night, any available
other-worldly knowledge. What else?
I’m unhappy even at the edge of rivers,
conversations regarding weather,
any manner of appointment. All comfort
requires another voice. Ditto delusion.
For instance, these shadows imposed
from trees bent by wind and other forms
of predictive behavior, may or may
not contain consciousness. I’m still
working it out. A glass of water grows
warm. I have done terrible and middle
class things for money. This is not
necessarily an acceptable conversation.
Things are good. The serotonin
reuptake inhibitor fades another winter.
If there are things we need, there are
things we need less. I face the mirror
to say it again with feeling. Understand
this is me applying myself.