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.

Ash

Burn bright, she said, you're young.

I, weak-willed, fresh fool, did.

And now I am soft and grey and scattering like ash.

DISSOLUTION OF A 27-YEAR-OLD

Add youth.
Remove youth.
Repeat.