That feeling like your heart
has crashed through the floor
interpreter unaccounted for
stuttering air until someone comes
to the rescue, since someone almost
never does, the reason because
maybe you haven’t released a sound
like me writing this poem
and you can only watch Mortal Kombat
so many times before you guess the winner
either the guy upstairs grinning
or the uppercut one with spike through chest.
The stitching feels wrong,
that faceless doll and stumbling waterfall
somehow right, plus the cocoon
my caterpillar crawled into seems ready
to bust alight. Even the evergreen
cleaving silently the afternoon
pushes and pulls a bit
but I’ve got Tomaz and Tim
on my side so I shouldn’t be eaten
whole by this time tonight.
One’s an immortal and the other
possesses duende, which I understand
as an ominous yell from a well.
I don’t like using the word woke
even when I’m opening my eyes
and lit has me pissed off ‘cause
I’m still using vernacular from the nineties
like fresh and fly. I could change.
I might even try.
I might even try to not try to try.
I’ve been spinning around in circles
the last hour and I don’t know why.