the thinking

i am thinking

at the very least
i am reading

i am the thinking
and the reading

i am the writing
i am the words
i am the symbols
lunging across synapses

i am the synapses
i am the phenomenon
so poorly limited
and encouraged toward esteem.

aborted larva quivers under a creaking fan

atrophy is busy work

so i say

to myself

sick and cringing

as my shoulders shiver

but i left the fan on

because i’d rather focus

on feeling cold

than feeling nauseous

i’m upright and wide awake

maybe if i

relinquish these dreams

i can sleep

but these dreams they are strong

there is no point

to blaming anyone

(not that there’s anyone

to blame) but i

just have to wait this

fucking nausea out

no clue when or how

it will end

but shivering and vomiting

has to stop at some point

or does it not

maybe if i

relinquish these dreams

i can sleep

but these dreams they are strong

like fibrous tendrils of my being

resisting the withering cackles of time

defiant in the face of despair

refusing to jettison their essence

in spite of the bitter vicissitudes of fate.

although

at this rate

eventually an emesis

will cross the line

and just shatter them for me.

it’s all good

like i said

atrophy is busy work.