day 12

Two weeks ago, my days revolved around grits.
The recipe, consumption, storage of grits. And bacon.
Which demanded just as much-- the oven
for an extra minute ruined a whole day
 but not enough is the same.

Now, my day revolves around pricing and graphics
and waiting for an email instructing me to go.
Two weeks ago, the music played on a loop,
I knew REM played after Filter and before Mariah Carey.
Two weeks ago, I knew people better than myself.
I knew the restaurant would fill, at least with laughter.

I knew. Now, I know nothing. Not if I would speak,
if I'd be crushed by both complaints and praise,
if anyone would miss me like I miss the grits.

day 11

I don't know how to write anymore.
Instead, I'm limboed like Dante between
two--not quite worlds, because, cliche--
but segments of my brain that register
the everyday.

One knows you, the English language,
and what it means when my eyes crinkle.
It understands that turning pages in a book
entertains me, that my cat, when he squeaks,
desires kibble.

This one speaks in fluctuations and in hands,
recognizes I like people and pasta. But when
I quit paying attention for more than five minutes,
like a light switch, I'm gone and the other
comes to.

The other thinks everyone's happy is too loud,
that pasta tastes of cardboard so why eat
and that wanting to talk to you is crazy.
It paints pills, carpet cutters, deep sleep through
it all.

The other speaks monotony and in stares, never
lets me leave the bed. It lives in glaze. A sludgey
blur that clears only when angry or my cat chirps
in hunger.

I see my happy in the sleep where subconscious squats
birdlike on the crack between light and slow-wave.
I see my happy just before a melody crushes the silence
of the other and crashes they crash into each other
once again.