by nat raum
my body doesn’t understand itself, electric
jolts across tense torso, eyelids twitch like dead fish
flop on a dock. you are intended to weather this, i remind;
nervous system tightens the knot between scapulae.
there are too many bodies in this bar and no
body understands silence anymore;
clamor careens off tile walls, eclipsing the speed
of sound with its shrillness. sprite and grenadine,
cluster migraine’s salvation—this is solutioning
at its finest. i sweat out the sugar, wintertime
already as far as the air ducts are concerned
instagram keeps sending me
ads for shoe inserts and i keep going back
to my old bars and wondering if capitalism
is enough to save me from myself, if just
the right combination of plastic and foam could
repair the bridges between my heels and toes
long enough for me to be weeded on service bar,
just one more time—of course not, but understand:
it is hope that keeps me among the living.
nat raum is the poet laureate of the void; their corporeal form lives in Baltimore. Find them online at natraum.com or astral projecting inside a Royal Farms.