|continuing foreword part two|
this is an exercise in futility. one which has no goal, no end game. no purpose or point or reasonable importance. these words are only for the digital lurkers. this is only for the poetry gagging owls of the night.
i am sitting alone in a room with no business. there is dust on the floors and a single lamp with a burnt out light bulb. the door is bolted shut and the sole window is boarded up. i am breathing, but i am not awake.
i am only as alive as she will allow. she speaks:
"take me as you always have. the sun is setting and soon you will wake. you will leave me for only a few hours to push the buttons and pull the levers as you always do. if you don't, i will leave you and you cannot survive."
but my feet- i've nailed them to the floor. i have a bed pan and a gallon of water. my stomach is swimming and the room is spinning. my back has begun to plead and my hands have started to shake.
one by one, i pull the nails out with a claw hammer. i can feel the summer winds crawling beneath the door. they are howling and the flies in my head are buzzing and they're starting to land all around me.
they want me gone as much as she does.
"go to work," she whispers. "go to work."
the block in which i live is a dark, seedy chasm in the belly of the city. in it i can find my way, regardless of the smells. i need to and i will.
the law won't find me tonight. tonight i will be my own judge. tonight i will be alive once more.
maybe tomorrow i can try again.
i pull my bloody feet forward.
(comment on this poem)