I’m not impressed anymore.
It’s like my glasses are too scratched
to see anything but days filled
with the same rolling wheels fueled by
fried foods and angry newscasters.
A woman is called brave for wearing
an outfit that looks like 1980’s vomit
while a man looking online for refuge
hits the underside of his desk
with his cock. They’re both empty.
The air is strange and tastes like
burnt leaves. Are there any waterfalls left?
I’m injured, moving slower and I wonder
if I’ll ever return to my normal speed.
When I try to meditate, my essence
becomes all about fried chicken
and mashed potatoes- and oh Lord,
Texas Sheet Cake… please!
A little longer, I keep telling myself
but I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.