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Poetry

HELL IS MY MAXIMUM

A prose poem.

It’s cool to feel a little defeated. Wake up ass crack early, find your eyes walk barefoot in the dark naked in endless tandem. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and say, The fuck you know. Give a little love today, more than you like, again and again. And more, again and again. Something nearly wells up inside and reaches a threshold of overwhelming clarity, waves and waves of this passes through me when the cat starts pawing at the door. If I cry it’s because I am on the verge of something good and ugly. I want to die in a hundred thousand painless ways to return to bed so I don’t have to go to work on Monday. Feeling bled out is normal right before I meet the carpool at six a.m. on the button and it’s my time again. It’s my time to rage in a quiet I wish you not know.

The funk is your brother, hell is my maximum. If I could be doing anything right now instead of going to work, I would be flying over all these cars in traffic, the higher I go the more life I would feel, the louder the thunder. Because of how they suffer, I am bound to these people. I pack peanut butter and honey sandwiches and bite my pear without looking at it. Beautiful light reflects off every useless surface, the highway dips and rises.

Waiting for coffee in the break room, I leave my mouth a little open. There is the center at the center if I can tap into whatever I tap into the right way and breathe out. It’s usually the same: I almost lose it. I come this close to losing it and the difference is a hair’s breath. But there it is, arriving, a little calm. I fall in love with every asshole that comes near me, every single person.

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