sour grapes. these droopy days are like
guarantors for my insecurity, my insurance.
they'll pay me back, slowly, in red eyes
goose-pimples, unnamed medications
they'll bail me out even as i cling to that
last hope, that inside kind of peace
i want to win, i do. i want to be the king and the court jester.
"try looking underneath this printer."
this room has been left unstaffed, unstocked
since time immemorial and all i want
is to plant a seed, watch roots crack through
the computers, desks, people. i wish
this room would yield something, for once.
wrong numbers, wrong names. i want to feel all of this beautiful numbness.
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