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It’s too bad our sun doesn’t go to sleep
in Lake Michigan. I’d have reason to spend
every evening on the beach. Yesterday,
I watched the sunset with grandpa and chased
a black moth out the sun porch. The sky was pink
and orange like grapefruit. Were you watching, too?
I understand. I often feel like a failure, too.
But I don’t really care. I like to sleep.
It took a while, but my guts are no longer pink.
I’ll probably never get there, so why spend
everyday giving chase to the tails we’ve chased
since time immemorial. Had we spoken yesterday,
or the day before yesterday,
maybe I’d have said something like, “Me, too.
Wowie, wish I would’ve stuck the landing and chased
the job, the house, the blushing bride. I’d lose sleep
over self-improvement so as to spend
the rest of my life in the pink.
Wear khaki pants and polos, all pink.
I might have mowed the lawn yesterday,
and I’d have so much money to spend
on cute dates. My lover might actually love me, too.
We would make love all night, no sleep.”
My thoughts race and I give chase,
back to my weedman’s big sister. She chased
whiskey with blue Sunkist, lips thin and pink.
We smoked crack in the pantry and crushed Xanax to sleep
while her son played Pokémon in the bedroom. Just yesterday,
(I mean the day prior to smoking crack) I was in the ER. That Friday, too.
I couldn’t breathe. So, I says to myself, I says, “It’s over, I’m spent.”
“Never thought I’d have to spend
my final moments in a hospital bed.” Somehow, I chased
away my fear of the needle in my arm. Death, too.
Thinking of my little life, I was tickled pink.
“But that’s not me. I must’ve died yesterday.”
My tomb was so cold, I couldn’t sleep.
I’ve spent so much time in the dark, chased
the cheapest thrills in the attic of hell, going pink
at the yesterdays on my sole. Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to sleep.
Twitter: @DeathDriveBooks
