Amphetamine and Internet connectivity issues do not mix.
It is a Friday in most of our worlds.
It might be a Friday in your world. Most likely
you’re not on the other side of this rock
on which we both believe ourselves to be grounded. Fuck it,
let’s just say that for everyone it’s Friday.
I’ve just snorted a small line of Phentermine.
In a couple minutes I will probably snort another.
A friend just called, also heavily medicated,
binging, confused, landing in Orlando,
attempting to forget the circumstances in which he drowns.
In a sense we are twins
but I forget about that and watch so simply the patterns of the wall.
Our complacency is riotous.
My friend is being left by his partner of eight years.
Sometimes I feel I’m crying wolf
but I’m crying regardless so it should not be ignored.
My friend is good with numbers,
he sort of looks like a more distinguished Harry Potter.
Today I heard the chair in which the first two Harry Potter books were written
was being sold for $394,000.
My friend could probably afford that
or better yet a permanent living situation.
My eyes are watering. I don’t know
if it’s the wine or the diet pill I put up my nose, only Vanessa knows
how many milligrams. Maybe I’m missing
the feeling that accompanies the sense that someone is pretending to care.
The soundtrack to all of this is German porn.
This makes no difference in the words but somehow
prevents my fingers from shaking inappropriate.
Today I read a poem called My White Feminism.
Today I listened to a song called Nazi White Trash.
Today I became dizzy on my way to the shower.
Today I missed a gaggle of hippies
I used to follow around in high school.
Today Merle Haggard died.
Today was Merle Haggard’s birthday.
Today I went to work and for lunch ordered the beef and brie.
Today I imagined my worst of fears: indefinite incarceration.
Today memory lapses absurd.
Today I took a picture of you out of a cardboard box
and I spoke to it for twenty four minutes
because I cannot speak to you.
Today is ending preferably
to how today began.

Joseph Goosey attempts to live in Southern Pines, North Carolina. He is the author of four chapbooks.