brain

Things don’t seem to move like they used to

slower

like suspended in a viscous honey

swamped like the back yard after a rain

old like the neighbor’s dog

These things remind some of life and death and little things

but they remind me of myself

only slightly better and slightly worse

Do you ever hear people talk about someone committing suicide and feel

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

not that they are dead but they are done?

They are free?

 

 

Abernathy Jones told me one time that’s its alright to feel depressed.

He shot himself the next day.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re even meant for this world as I drive my steel rimmed box down a plastic hallway in Gloucester.

Sometimes I wonder at all.

Lately I’ve been having trouble recalling things I remember.

I can’t recall what I remember.

 

 

Eliot wrote The Waste Land and The Hollow Men while working at a bank

What does that mean for me?

Am I a hollow man living in a wasteland?

Seems that way to me

Or maybe I’m just paranoid

 

 

A well fit lesson on madness

would include scans of my brain in this place

bright orange and red flashes of activity explode across the field

a beautiful portrait of my everyday thoughts

stupefied and incredulous my fans drift from island to island

waiting for rays of me

 

skull

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Posted by Wes Laudeman

Writer. That's pretty much all there is worth mentioning and should say just about all there is to say about me.

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