Sulk. An interesting word. It reminds
me of sink. The ship sinks, the
sea sinks, the earth sinks. I sink.
I sing with sulk. I smoke hard,
leaving my teeth mark on the
yellow-wish filter, not letting go.
Was it yellow-wish, or brown, or
anything else? Something-wish can’t
be exact. Does it matter? To whom
and about what? Who could be exact?
I leaned my face near the low light at
my desk, reviewing my life in another
low light, a bigger one. I’m not anything,
not anything enough, as always. I am a
completed piece of art composed of
incomplete pieces, severely torn with
edges incompatible with each other.
Reminiscence haunts me near the ashtray:
body unembraced; moments unenjoyed.