A thing that has survived from the past

I am tired and this isn’t my bed. This isn’t my head. I am a yawn wrapped in skin. I am dead numb defiant to everything but that sound is keeping me awake. It is the sound of the radio.

I sing every song known to man and every dirge known only to women. I frequent fine altars and coarse temples. My priest serves a sermon of soup and ladles hot acid homily into my eyelids Amen. I drink the Wisdom and it guides me to the wildness. I have committed every crime. I have attempted every faux pas. I have mispronounced every word with thick turgid lips. I am the fog-sharp knife stuck in your stomach. I am the growl of your stomach’s stomach. I am unignorable.

I was frozen in fear. I am thawed by anger. I now flow like a thickened stew of revenge and doubt. Tonight we smoke them out. I am Midas and his touch and a heap of dead gold. I am a fascist in the sheets and a follower in the streets; I don’t understand anything in between. Science calls it a top sheet.” I kick it with disgust to the foot of your bed.

I am a birthday cake without the candles or song. And I take offense to that, even thought I said it. My reflex is self-instinct and hasty manifestos in the fourth person. That’s You squared. I am the bold brusque confusion of an autocorrected thought. I’m a clap-back of a clap-back. I am an all caps missive published at 4am.

I am virtuous and true. I am a smiling police officer turning off his body-cam. I am a mid-divorce judge about to change your life. I am a teacher in a chalk-stained blouse. I am the body of a slain black teenager. I am the gum-smacking kid who eats attention for breakfast and the gun-toting kid who chooses vengeance for dessert. I am the gestapo and the French Revolution. I am the armies at sunrise and the sleeping civilians at sunset. I am brooding, duplicitous, wicked, and able. I am 90 million coughing. I am 2 million dead.

I’m ready for a few kind of washing machine. I’m overdue for a vanilla latte. I’m saving up for a new kind of slime. I’m a sea of glass faces, waiting for the van to come. I’m a hot piece of iron, coal fired, and flattened into your skull.

And I’m going to crush it into pieces.

Because I am everything you ever wanted to know. I am an open box. You are a sound-bite glutton and I am the sound of the radio.

Good morning.

Up next Assembly instructions for a side table Swipe
Latest posts Virus Swipe Hangover Assembly instructions for a side table Crime Gesture Nickelodeon Mispronunciation Fame Wordsmith Trifle Coffee compass Pepsi “Breathtaking” Plug Gift Linen Habanero is foreign enough Week There is no daylight savings time Divide Pickle Belonging Grudge Codswallop System Sales Flight Manager Arbor Responsive Blase