Killing Time

I fall asleep to words
internally said, internally sour.

I spend too long
in this position—

sparking up conversations
with my ghosts
by fucking rocks of
experience & imagination
together.

They’re still walking around—

existing in visibility
to the outer world
but in the same sad
mocking graves to me—

all of them with their
old memoria voices choking
my throat like rough
hands of air.

I’m bouncing kinetic
across the walls—

fogging up each mirror
with the losses—

nose close & unable to
make out a single face
in the fugue,

losing sight of my self
within those fossilized

paramedic nights

& too dimensional days.

They say resilience levels
are dependent on genetics—

the dependency I have
on the bell curve I dig
dirt to breathe

underneath

& its hurried flushed face
bargaining for my exhaustion.

To hold on, I grope around
my opposite sides
& invent speeches of
uncomfortableness—

would you like a flash
of my birthday scars
in your flask.

The remains of my
first true death
rolling in the ashtray.

The dead dog’s paw
in your dinner plate.

All the tiny tragedies of last year
swirling in my glass
you all jumped out of
thirty-six months

before the flood.

The winds are the only
things to calm me now—

breaking my neck from
the inside of my gaping

mouth

while I murmur to
you spirits
just how inverted you

left me—

my colors chameleon
into the scenery until
I’m a heat mirage
on the edge of the asphalt.

Just how you dissipated out of
my multiple presents.