Tuesday, August 23, 2016

PIN PRICK

Even before starting, 
it feels faintly 
painful

and exhausting—the terrible
long shot 

that anything 
is ever really 

like anything 
else. But—

whatever.

So this poem has 
no magic

pebbles in it. No
majestic power

animals or extremely  
hot peppers. So what? 
Maybe that's 

just it. 

Maybe that's 
the whole premise—
maybe it's

last night 
or this 
morning, and we're at

the train stop, we're
on the internet, 
etc.

when—
the same thing happens.

I mean, the very 
exact same stupid 
old numb inane pin 
prick of a thing as usual—only 

this time, 
it feels 

just a little 
new.

Which isn't 
to say (don't worry)
there's really anything 

you're supposed to feel
or do about it
afterwards.

I'm mostly just trying 
to distract you

while I 
give you this 

little—
inoculation.

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