I’ve started this now

the pre-checked disconnect from the future

a friend of mine asked me if I still commit poetry, I was sad to say not lately. I feel like life keeps sliding away from me like one drunken blackout through another the power has been cut to my transmitter. There’s something dead in here with me and from the way it jerks about I is scared it might grow back. Microsoft word just corrected my “I am” to “I is” thank god it didn’t let me forget that I write in ebonics, which isn’t in its dictionary surprisingly, is that a glitch or some programmers idea of a joke? I feel uselessly out of date like none of the advancements have advanced anything and as a matter of fact the advance I was promised is still due. Death is all around my chest and my lungs. Death is about my breast and rising. Death is for those who roll uncompromising. Death is to the old. This makes it feel worse actually; the unwashed years oiling my skin, slick with old life, skin cascading away from this sighing wasteland. Tears when they bring no relief, shaky heart instead when they would. Everything so in and out as the old in and out, hopelessly. So close to giving up so close to trying again so close to death as to give a start in the throat as if I’d just seen a ghost. So close to not being able to do it that it’ll be a photo finish for the start. I don’t know why I keep writing, here in my room, in my apartment by myself, in the frigid understanding of the winter to come and the strange complementary pain that is my life.