Let there be cake

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.


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