woke disappointed this morning, mistook the wind as rain. for two weeks straight a man asking about emily has left twelve voicemails. sorry about michigan. i save the messages & listen to them while walking alone at night. i have memorized the area code.

the story has no point but stillness itself

on the front porch a roach sleeps supine. one could conclude dead, but i saw its left antenna move one afternoon & then the next. everyday i’m careful not to crush, to watch instead that lone antenna, even though i know the twitch might just be a trick the wind playing on movement.

sometimes i think my body believes in manifest destiny. that once unrest was just a tiny speck that grew cause it fancied itself the possessor of a god-given right to conquer. i see dissatisfaction as a disgruntled despot in my intestines who sprawls behind a desk of wadded gum i swallowed in fourth grade. he is napping, head resting on a map of my innards. he dreams of a destruction so disgusting no one will want to notice, so no one will. the dream’s vivid, so genuine in fact that, when he wakes, he cannot comprehend the stillness of his surroundings.