Embedded Files
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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