hopefully i have a fever

icing sugar on fragile crumb and soft snow on the ground and the scatter of dandelion seeds and buttercup petals do not touch where

there is dust on a shriveled rose

in the frowning houses, none of the cold, quiet places

no one goes;

where dust sits like cinder on a comfortable chair

no glint of a spark

in the air and

dust moves like a cloud

swallowing the sun

as the windows gape open

moaning loud.

panic is over at my place

tired, cold, and hungry

because it’s as pervasive as
an irregular chord stuck in your head
the notes in panic, staff lines shuddering,
accidentals like scalpels and dynamics in rhythm
only with the screech and screams of Doppler-like thoughts and Doppler-like pain and Doppler-like fear back and forth and back and forth and
the cacophony makes cold feet hurt tripping along.

reheated coffee

i’m just hungry
just hungry for a rich life and success that can not come will not come when i am full
when i am full of fear and unrest and failure and i want
to throw up, first, because i cannot
swallow it down.