THIS IS NOT A CHAIR

Maybe we can adapt. Maybe we can nab a fantasy with wings the size of elephant ears. Join the Jugular Club, admittance is free on Wednesdays. Let’s play atop purpled landscapes, Harry can’t see life for the deaths. Do the bridge girl while she hangs her head and falls upon the bar, all the beer bottles surrounding her like soldiers looking for prisoners. 

And the slide guitar pierces sadness into your soul, it asks your name again, but you refuse to give it, you’re afraid of what will happen then, that you’ll be found out for the hydraulic man you really are. See this photograph? This is the one I really like. Isn’t he cute, the way he poses for someone’s camera as if he’s not the stranger he is. Here is where everyone is. 

There must be something here. The ice floes flow past, cracking my head to bits. I eat brown rice and think of commercials about pitchforks and bloodied chests. I came to make sure the doors are all locked. Time holds warmth against you, blames you for taking fire without permission. 

Take a deeper breath. 

Kick me over. 

Draw me dark.

© 2023 Jeffrey S. Callico