It’s when you sit down and your ass already hurts.
The lamp shade remains crooked, but you put it off
Until tomorrow and you start falling into that place;
The place without walls, but filled with floaty feelings,
Stars speckling the floor and dirt packing the air.
You think it’s loud and confusing, but you’re there
All the time; whenever someone calls you back
You jump or blink or swallow—looking stupid.
And you say:
Your voice sounds funny.
Have you said anything to anyone today?
You missed what they said again, but they’re gone.
You’re back to the place you hate, you know, you call
The lamp shade is still crooked and your ass,
My god, your ass is sore. You think about the food
In your pantry and then your ass—you got to bed,
Afraid for your ass.
You experience your days exactly how you have
Every day for the past however many days
Yet all of it led you here, to this place of stars and dirt;
Dead things that keep dying to remind you of what’s next.
You wish you had done something important before
You went back to this place, but you forget what’s important.
Just the dead things among stars and your eyes in dirt jars.
And human is another name for habit.