When my brother spoke of coming down...
From heroin
He said that “it, it just feels like I'm dying”
I remember, dismissively
Feeling like I'd head this before
You're not dying, your just— body’s going through withdrawal
I think of him; one hand on the wheel of his truck
the other flicking a cigarette out the window
Talking some nonsense about paying underground artists
I think of him: on days like today, where the dog’s water is frozen into one big cube
About to liquidate my whole collection, because I don’t believe in it anymore
As I wake up to another summary execution on the streets of Minneapolis.
I too, feel like I'm dying.
Tired in a way that becomes disassociative
In this mælstrom that subsumes everything into itself
It feels as though we are transgressing an event horizon; perhaps we already have.
Are we dead already? Am I lensing a guaranteed future?
Or am I going through withdrawal?
As if yearning for a thing that no longer exists
I just need another hit of that, that conceptualized value
Just t’get me by for another month.
And I think of you on these days,
Eeyore-ass, mountain of a man
Devoid of belief in it anymore,
absolved of all that nonsense.
