IntelligentZombie

A lonely bird alights upon a branch that bends beneath the cold embrace of ice bent heavy by the winter’s cruel heart; this little bird may lose to bitter winds. a ruffled bird, so far it’s flown, unseen, with torn wing and a nervous flutter it prepares to once again take flight and soar with kites that stream the colors of the sea. it’s then the bird's last hope is cruelly lost- the branch gives way, the bird begins to fall, and tumbles on into the gutter's frost, where dreamers gently hold it, hopes and all.

there were 14 days to claim a loved one before an inmate lowered them in a box down into the dirt with no name. there’s an island of graves in the shaded lap of the Bronx now everything’s open again. rallies and fairs and festivals and no one came for those bones because time ran out to claim them but we just go on like it never happened. what else can we do?

you are a dancer in a ghost town perfect in balance and symmetry you pirouette beneath shaded towers and the world has a strange hum, an unsteady pulse. there are eulogies here in the heavy silence masked lips that offer no comfort. a boy stares, as his mother checks her phone to see where their ride share is and you try to ignore this child’s bafflement but you misstep, the turn of ankle and you swear at the sharp starburst of pain as you stumble and he laughs and in the silence carved out by the lack of engines, by the lack of feet by the lack of bustle and vibrancy, his laugh is louder than a gunshot the mother looks up, and sees you there, limping. it’s a vacant gaze; she is empty and barely sees you and that is fine. you and she are the ghosts and have convinced yourselves you are still living. you are a dancer imperfect in balance but so what if there is pain, there is nothing that will stop you from whirling on almost emptied streets for an observer or none, you

how to kill God an easy step-by-step guide with full-page color illustrations page 73 this lesson is on how to collapse your spine lull god into a false sense of security because you are small and meek. you will forget that God is in your crosshairs but page 101 has a hastily scrawled handwritten note, advice from someone who has tried this before: keep going until he’s dead. so you do. you flip through the pages, smooth and lovingly turned by the supplicant, the would-be-murderer the you who sits awake shaking at 4am too afraid to crawl out of bed, you flip through to the end. on page 363 the answer is so simple, you have all your tools and have selected a shoebox for a casket (you have learned that God is very small.) you bury Him under the azaleas in a hot, cloying breeze and you will picnic frequently only a few feet away from Him with rarely a glance in His direction.

i. trash can i now have a laundry room door that lacks a doorknob, because why the fuck would i deserve a door with a doorknob? i have new blinds so i can let the light in to see better the depression piles and lost interests while everything that gets a little better just exposes the soft rot underneath in the ever-worse, that nifty neat place where nihilists, soldiers, and retail workers compare notes and study for their next existential crisis and so it is hard to favor bright-eyed optimism when the wry half-smile cynic-asshole mode runs deeper than my roots and i have anchored here for decades in the soil of rueful, wishful thinking. i will throw away old drawings, i will throw away old feelings, i will commit myself like a bride to this dented trash can and fold myself into it, legs first, like a praying mantis or a lawn chair having a nervous breakdown but the garbage can is a safe place to be and i do not disappoint myself from inside it how could i? i have set the bar

you have an unkind thought. the shock is bitter-rich as you bite your tongue, determined to keep cruel thoughts in because no-one asked for this, no-one asked for you and the way you think is not a polite gift. so this thought you keep, this and all the others, this you tamp down deep and you do not open the mouth because then no one will be happy, and when you are not polite you are not a gift. and yet. there is a bow atop your dumpster inferno, there is wrapping paper around this manic pixie disaster and you are giving everyone everything that you can as soon as you can give it. there is a chorus of voices to greet you when you feel good when there is air in your sails when there is pep in your step when your balloon is inflated when you forget there is another shoe and it drops like your stomach does as these mouths open to share their unkind thoughts: that you are (a disappointment) they are (disappointed) you are (disappointing) and each time you are angry but you change