Writhing Under the Brittle Sun

The pitch hits a feverish height. A cry in the distance but seemingly shrieking right by your ear. No, you cannot have that toy on the shelf. And there is no candy left for you. You've outgrown your chariot. It's seventy years of shuffling around aimlessly left for you, child.

Try as you might. There's just no scrubbing that layer of grime off your life. Try to delve into those nooks and crannies all you like. There is no length of floss that can dislodge that poppy seed of despair. You're overdue for another dentist visit. Always, always overdue.

This door found floored. Kicked in from God knows what kind of raid or home invasion. A symbol of safety and impregnableness. Rendered in splinters all over the porch. And abandoned here to think about its ultimate failure of sole purpose. This knob will forevermore go unjiggled.

Fetal and fetid. This possum curls into a final repose. Matted into its fur a hubris that it could cross the street in defiance of those slaloming tires. A mistake most grave on his part. Now deigned to rue what went wrong under the sweltering winter California sun.

It's Super Bowl Sunday so recline the lumbar back a little further. And watch in perfect comfort as your life further races by you in thirty second commercial spots. The cushions soft but hardly enough to mollify the brunt of rock-bottom. Turn the volume up. For I can still hear my ennui.

Standing tall and sentinel. Harboring the month's supply of mayonnaise and potato salad and other important weekend sundries. Climate change wreaking havoc on our seasons still. You can leave the door to the fridge ajar all you like. The wildfires are coming for you.

Woe and woe everywhere and not a drop of hope to drink. The barnacles cling to our society and wait for a high tide that shan't be coming. We're landlocked and the fog thick and the lighthouse bulb long snuffed out. Let us drift further and further out toward the horizon. And let the sea reclaim us again once and for all.