Visitors

"That was terrible, holy shit," Matt says, falling to the floor. 

"Now you can write about it," Scott says. 

"This feels interesting actually...No. I don't even want to write about it - yet, anyway" Matt says. "I want a shot!"

Matt rolls over and knocks into the chair with wheels. The chair rolls a little. The box fan rattles a little. 

Scott's eyes widen. Matt and Scott's eyes connect visions. Scott moves his eyes around, then Matt does too. 

"Shots!" Matt says. 

Matt and Scott don't find any liquor in the kitchen and Matt goes to his landlord for some, who forces the bottle into his hand grudgingly. 

"Don't keep me up," the landlord says with close-cropped eyes.

Matt swallows a shot of gin and says "This all feels really good... man, I feel alive, bro," into the medium-space, before the off-white wall. 

Matt registers each of his reactions to the outside world as individual feelings, glowing distinctly in his chest. Hands scooping the circumference of color-coded orbs. He resigns knowing the despair will soak into his flesh and pours another shot.

"You're doing a good job," Scott says.

Matt moves his eyes over to Scott's without moving his head, which is fixed over the desk, the bottle and the glasses. 

"They were both just here, right? Did you see them there and hear their voices like I did?" Matt says.

Scott smiles at Matt, wildly a little. His hands in his pockets, tasting gin. He cannot feel any of his own problems directly. Matt touches his finger tips to the desk and begins moving his body rhythmically to the music.

 

a poem about the wildlife refuge in brooklyn

my life seems depressing. 

when i write about the things i do in real life i feel like i am fucked.

we all change as people, right. there are some bananas near me

and there are more bananas on the windowsill. 

i changed as a person, but still feel existentially frustrated,

and now i like to drink coffee and think about how societies are meaningless

constructs. the line breaks in the poem will drive home this winning argument - 

something, be post modern maybe.

my endocrine glands have been infected, i feel

and will require an injection

the doctor says. 

the serum they use is electrically charged, and seems sweet!

the anxiousness in my stomach is yellow and ice creamy. 

at night on a friday i feel like i took a nap and woke up extra oily.

i read some

sentences of short stories and then stopped after some sentences

and made pasta, ate it, 

rode my skateboard around at 5am and bought a huge cantaloupe

and dropped it, but it was fine and then i ate it

then i took the train to the wildlife refuge

where i walked around in a maze of bushes.

sometimes i came to mud and grass taller than small trees

and at one point felt completely surrounded by birds

but could not take pictures of any with my cellphone.

with my shirt off, sweating a little,

red lines and patches streaked across my chest and arms.

then, finally i felt too tired to keep up my an inner monologue or something.

forgetting, but imagining a little, 

i slept a little on the train ride back.