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
WesWord Bound 