I am the problem, or, A bad case of the Hamlets

Something great has happened; I feel terrible. And this makes so little sense to me, I cannot focus on anything else.

*

I am no longer able to tell how wrong I am or how right. Anything could be the case. Disorientation must be the price you pay for possibility.

*

In the middle of the night, worn threadbare, I reach into the refrigerator, and wrapping my palm around a big, smooth mango, I fold down on the floor, shaking with relief.

I NEED SOME TIME TO THINK

Indigestion in the belly of the beast.

INDEPENDENCE DAY NIGHT

From the back of a taxi, the moon a vanilla bean disc behind transparent clouds, music pouring forth from the speakers like a 360° audio simulation of an electronic Niagra—speech and symphony beating like falling waves—I lean my head against the window and pray for a better next destination.

Fallow

All seasons are past. Four names, three languages, two places, one date. Mientras, standing in a windtunnel in new courtyard in an old building in a baked city on a drizzle-cooled evening trying to seem interested in free booze and high culture and good-looking well-dressed people, frowning and swearing and handing out cards like some sort of pretend adult, choosing to go home, softly, in a small silent silver car.

What use is youth without ease?

I found a leaflet in the park. On the front, it said: How to Survive. On the back: Inhale. Don't breathe.

SORRY TO WAKE YOU

Something about 4am gives me the curiosity to say "I don't love you" and see if we can't proceed from there.