and we are having a good time of it walking the streets like recently released relics from the cellar of a miser’s fruity stomach lining … we smiled at everyone, especially those who were smileless, especially those who were expressionless.
And I talked to you a lot of about where he is, where he went, if someone plucked him from the West coast and placed him in a curio to blend into the world of unsaid affection and misery. You said I worry too much and I think too much. And I shouldn’t stay up all night anymore because the next day is as bad as the lilting decomposition of rancid meats left unturned, uncooked, alone somewhere dark, damp, and hot, left out all night, up all night.
But still I wonder where he is, finding him invading my thoughts like never before. During the ride to work today, I imagined him in pieces like a puzzle and after my 30 minute commute had ended I had put him back together like millions of little bones.
Someone said crosshairs again in my head and it is a word that has been occupying me since it was first said … not two days ago. Not three. Is it one word or two? I doubt it is hyphenated … it is one word it seems. There is something very much alive in the word but I do not feel targeted.
But that one of mine, who rents out a few corners of my brain … maybe he has went missing because of the curses of crosshairs. Maybe that is why I imagined him a puzzle, put him together, and kept thinking of the strangeness of guns and crosshairs cometh.
But watch … my poems have been pouring into us like election results.
Anhedonia: The Poetry Life 