hard ricochet

from March, from May

letters unanswered,

faces filed away

or

bleeding as yet undone,

funerals not yet attended;

on April airwaves the past and the future

arrive as inevitable hauntings,

electric, anachronistic, and scatological at once,

shattering thought and little household tasks,

etching fatal geometry into temporal space,

piercing every self,

souring coffee,

burning leaves,

staining linens,

wasting breath and adrenaline

for nothing in particular,

all lost to a liminal moment,

to the echo of a hard ricochet

that inevitably marks the ‘now’

with the ghastly prescience,

of an interminably postponed night.

all of those things that all normal people are certain are beyond understanding?

—

Where, exactly, do I belong, and what does it mean that I’m asking this question once again? Am I better than everyone else, or worse? Or merely separated by oceans?

—

I have grown tired of New York.

I may actually hate New York.

—

Groundhog day. Living it all over and over and over and over and over again.