Ate almost a quart quart of ice cream today.
Felt sick for a while. Drank some water,
lotioned up my legs, wanted to overdose on Klonopin,
but didn’t. And now sitting sideways on the futon,
my tablet the only source of light, I think about being dead.
I hope it’s like the Netflix Series Sense 8
where we don’t need to understand anyone, but simply jump
into their hearts and minds and live two lives in one.
I would go into my father first and feel what he can’t express,
then my mother and sisters. From there to a boy in Pizhou China
where I taught English, and be him but also me. I’d stay inside
a prostitute, both of us nameless in a nameless alley.
Pale. Stone faced. As priceless as rat shit. Numb but alive.
And not alone. We’d be one, the way two fractions can be one.