COLIN ALEXANDER

4.25.19

I’m losing it, what little I have.
My fingers slip just through my hands,
Grains of sand like grains of sand.

I’m losing it, what little I have
Arching back for a final laugh,
My head she gently cracks in half.

Bone and blood remade as one,
Shining bright the sickening sun
The heart of the head not yet undone.

From the shore waves come and go
But seas the sunsets sleep below,
Giving into Earth’s undertow

I’m losing it, what little I have.
Where once there was a body I stand,
Grains of sand like grains of sand.

From day to day we all must die,
That left inside set free to fly.
No hope but faith left justified.

While whirling gusts rip limb from limb
Only dust slips through the sieve.
No skin no teeth no heart that beats and yet
I live.

THE HOUSE IN THE VALLEY

The lights haven’t worked in a while now
But I guess I’ll keep paying the bills—
;;;;;;There’s no need to cause any trouble.

Water still comes through the tap
I’ve got a gas stove which still works, and
;;;;;;I’ve got enough food to eat.

I used to read in the light by the window
But I can’t find it anymore—
;;;;;;I can’t seem to find anything here.

That’s okay, because I still have candles
They’re burning low now so I use them carefully
;;;;;;But I’ll make it a while longer.

There’s a TV upstairs that still works
It comes on every once in a while
;;;;;;And now there’s nothing but static.

The lights haven’t worked in a while now
But I guess I’ll keep paying the bills—
There’s no need to cause any trouble
I don’t think anyone’s coming to fix them
I’d do it myself, but I don’t know how,
And besides,
;;;;;;It’s hard to see in the dark.

SHLUMP

Shlump is a verb.
I shlump
You slump
We all shlump.
And we all do, shlump, whether we know it or not.

It’s what you do when you get home after a long day.
You take your coat off
You take your shoes off
You let your breath out and
Underneath your coat and
Inside your shoes and
Behind the breath you’ve been holding
You find there isn’t much of anything.
And then you shlump.

Shlump is a noun.
A shlump is what’s right after
A long exhale accompanied by nothing but
The realization that once again
You must breath in and then out and then in and then out and then in and then out and then in and then out and then in and then out and then in and then out,
For the rest of all possible futures
Until you die.

A shlump is in between your last breath out
And your next breath in.
An expectation of something becoming
An expectation of nothing.
A flick of the switch
As you remember the lights don’t work.

GENERATED BY LINKEDIN

with D. Hunter Reardon

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