Watermelon Sour Patch

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4.4 Watermelon Sour Patch

It’s a stale room.
Bullets on a countertop.
Thick glass and blinking lights.
A green and pink bag sticks out,
Levity in a serious place.
I call him on it.
The best kind, he says,
The only kind I eat.
Can I have one?
Sure.
Under the stares of the men in stars
I pop a sugar-dusted gummy.
Haven’t had candy in days and
It makes a difference.
Damn fine sour patch, I say,
But I like the bite of the regular.
Fire burning on the camera,
Far off from the room.
He laughs, this young man.
More for me, as he flips a switch.
Duty in his motion.
Treats for a good boy.

Walls and Otherwise

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Walls and Otherwise

An edifice of sandstone, smooth and windswept.
One would think it was a cliff face
For all its length and height.
It is imposing.
It suggests impenetrability.
I walk to it, taking in the immense flatness of it.
My fingers press on its sun-warmed surface and am surprised to feel small, red granules roll away under my fingers and fall to my feet.
Hesitantly, I scratch the wall, watch flakes fall
and turn to dust.
I tap, grind, dig, emboldened.
The seemingly solid mass gives way begrudgingly
My hands will hurt tomorrow.
It would be easier to stop, but I’m insatiable.
Finally, a hand pops through the other side
The wall is not thick.
Simply a grand facade.
I reach through and there on the other side I can feel them brushing against my hands.
My words.

Chairbound

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Chairbound

 

This chair is making me shrink.
In my calves, in my thighs I can feel it.
I’m growing a hair’s breadth shorter.
It’s a death to do nothing but sit.

This chair is making me tight.
In my back, in my arms I can sense it
My bones are forgetting their rhythms
I’ll be turning to mud in a bit.

This chair is making me dull.
In my fingers and toes I can name it
My blood oozes on in frustration.
I chomp an invisible bit.

This chair is making me blank.
In my eyes and my mind I do fear it.
I hear the sun calling my name
Under each monotonous clock tick.

This chair is making me shrink.
I better break the chair into pieces
Better run through the wild grass fields
Better tackle the nephews and nieces.

I know that we’re all slowly dying
Of the inevitable fate I’m aware
But I’ll not go out without trying
To get out of this god-cursed chair!

But alas it’s my job to just sit here.
Stagnant, with nothing to do.
So I’ll write up a quick ode to freedom
In the hopes it will inspire you!