cathection

Note: I wrote this last night after reading a particularly realistic and therefore painful assessment of the world’s economic situation. This is the experience of late capitalism writ both eye-level and so large we can’t comprehend it fully.

Cracked riverbeds; pale adobe dust.

I have no more. At this point

it’s all dry heaving, sugar-bile

staining the back of my throat.

I can’t sing. I’ve got bad habits.

Maybe this will make me beautiful.

Maybe if I just own this I’ll be

mirrors, refracted, instead of tethered

to this awkward lumbering seething

pile of gristle, fat and bone. Maybe

you’ll want me. Want me for what?

Batteries improperly disposed of

are leaking into the groundwater.

I have no more. Maybe you won’t

get close enough to the facade.

Maybe we’ll be evicted. Maybe

we will remember. Maybe there is

worth in the scraps. Maybe we are home,

constantly grasping.