Tell me you’re working, you’re always working, the work always more bare, more picked dry, more scratched, its bones so long ago come loose. Drag your nose along through your day, your words all tied up in their saddles, cradles of the face turned slender, dead gnats got in your lunchbox, upset syllables gone pale, shattering radios broadcasting your moods. Tethered and tethered and tethered, your periscope has cataracts like old dogs, you react angrily each time you’re disturbed. Everything is so brittle, numb like an animal cracker, numb like a rat therapist, you dive on yourself like you had long wings like a seagull, your laziness is your best act, concealing a crazy sadness.
Tell me you’re working, you’re working — you are increasingly fried by echoes — tell me how you curl up, how you dangle, tell me you’re working, you’re working. Your mouth is an army of ugliness, your hand rotted in the light, each day is like a dandelion that lost its seeds, tethered and tethered. Cradles of the face show joy, or at least that’s what you say, obsessively watching yourself, hearing static on the radio, cream of heart soup no sooner made than spilled.
Tell me you’re working, you’re always working, the work always more bare, more picked dry, more scratched, its bones so long ago come loose. Everything is so brittle, so negligent, numb like the wreck of a car, numb like the smear of a wing. Tell me you’re working — tell me gently, gently, a slow act, a droll phonograph spinning — the face tethered and tethered — tell me you’re working, you’re working — yes I wrote all this once upon a time while sitting outside at noon, the summer that this story started.