Image for post
Image for post


You stare at your coworker drinking coffee
and the coffee is screaming
because life is unpredictable
and the rules were all written by dead people
and no one can measure how far away the sky is.

The letters and numbers on your screen
are swirling like galaxies.
The fork from your lunch is vibrating on your desk.

Your heart is fighting to stay inside your chest
for fear of being thrown out of your body
into the elements.

Your body is clinging to your desk chair
for fear of being thrown up through the ceiling
into the endless sky.

Your desk chair is clinging to your office
for fear of being spun off the edge of the universe
into the madness of the unknown.

The universe is clinging to existence
for fear of being thrown into the bellies
of forgotten gods.

And at the center of it all is a golden woman
with jungle planets for eyes.
She coos to a crystal baby in her arms
that everything is perfectly fine.

“It’s all spinning in perfect order.
We are all coming back home to ourselves.”

The words vibrate through your bones.

Your mouth still hangs slack-jawed
where you had opened it to scream.
You burp instead.
Dale spits out his coffee laughing
at the look on your face.


I write about the end of illusions.

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