There Are Days

There are days when we rise zombie-like

sweating out Seattle’s winter

dark chilly razorbladed damp

with spiritual hangovers sludged

among the nooks of our idiot-shaped mouths

sidling down crooked-footed like a drunken hurricane

to the Five Point Cafe for Midwest-inspired biscuits

that chortle like dragons beneath milk-and-sausage gravy

molten lava oozing down into our inescapable bellies.


Days when hourglass mist smears the faces of trees

hovers in the window like an apparition

shrouding brains, suffocating plans

pouring itself hot coffee and sitting down

in the chair opposite

surveying us over the jeweled rims of spectacles.


Days when Jurassic tree-trunks

are outside rooted like stone spires

in an earth both maiden and crone

hooked in steadfast as organic angels.


Days when the locomotive realization flattens us

the recurring non-dream that we can hardly cope

with the world so modern and impersonal and isolated and empty

spiders dancing madly on the bitter concrete of our systems

alarm clocks with eyes and legs and deadlines.


Days spent in a place of hushed desperation

waiting rooms tick tick tick

heads falling forward then snapping back

snores that rattle the foundations of skyscrapers

toppling domino-like as we discover

we thought we needed something we didn’t

in order to get something we thought we wanted

that in the end we had no use for.


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