I constrict, like a snake, the boa. I’m catching my breath, chasing it. I’m built on anxiety, building this anxiety. It’s my aesthetic. My modern view and my tired time and my sticky, no good mind.
What is a no good mind, anyway.
I dip my head under then rise. The water is as warm as it is stale. There’s a concerto playing because I’m a 20th century sham, a cliché, in a tub, underwritten. I watch as drops flee my skin and I think, I think I might expire. Dry up. Cease and desist. My being will shake into words and fall into letters and meet demise with the aid of an eraser or a slick case of whiteout. It will take place in an alley. Yeah, an alley.
I’m scared of relevance. I’m scared of caring about relevance. I’m scared, (.) Let’s not bring it up. Instead, we’ll listen and we’ll absorb and we’ll be together. Me, you, the whiny harpsichord, the pretentious flute, the cello. It’s us, baby. It’s all us.