Dry Heaves

Buzz Fisher

Sorry that I’m sorry

that I don’t know

who I should be sorry about

about not being here.

I’m surrounded here-

yet alone in the crowd.

Alone with my thoughts

running rampant

about her

and her

and her

and her.

None of them,

I’m sure,

having thoughts of me.

Within the laughter

that comes from every corner

are the tears

running inside me.

To let them surface

would be selfish

and childish

and pointless.

Why be pointless

and childish

when pointless alone

leaves a shred,

just one shred perhaps,

of pride?

The words spew -

vomit from my pen.

To avoid dry heaves

I engulf everything around me

in hopes that I can achieve

something solid at least.

I hold to my pen

as if grasping a toilet -

spinning wildly out of control -

I have no control.

I pray for control -

want nothing more.

Yet it remains

unattainable.

I smile -

can’t even control that.

An incessant

twitch

controlled by madness.

Madness -

wonderful hollering

and screaming.

Sounds of twisted steel

cars 75 miles per hour

head on.

Woman being killed.

Child unattended.

Noise in my head.

In my world.

But not beyond.

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