Thursday, March 24, 2016


What to do When You Feel Less Than Zero

In the in-between,
the clouds won’t part again
and the moon is a stranger who insults your
taste of music,
your choices and conclusions,
while everything congeals
and conspires as usual,
the same old hoaxes,
those familiar promises
unraveling like the life
you’ve been living for years.
Going down again,
you float on razors,
on spikes and crimson oven coils.
It’s enough to banish anyone,
enough to make one want to
vanish into an ashy mist.
In the bathroom,
there are plenty of pills,
a sharp blade, scissors, too,
a dull tub that might be
filled to overflow.
But there on the lampstand
is the slip of paper
with my number printed neatly.
Do you see it?
No, look again.
Reach for it.
Go on, please.
Call me anytime, it says.
Really, anytime.
Call me and I’ll be there.

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