Living the blue, the green,
the art-colored life: it sticks to you,
that soft mold of
satisfaction as you emote,
create; happy with the way
it holds you and seals you
from thinking about what
you’re not doing.
Wrapped in it, you barely notice
the smell of decay. The bills
pile up, the phone calls remain
unanswered, and you’re fat and happy
inside the fuzzy rot you’re carrying
everywhere with you.
You tell yourself:
how bad can it be
when they make
penicillin from this stuff?
Sick people get well
on the essence, after all,
and you’re not sick right now,
with your hands
sculpting the air
into fancy shapes.
The power’s off. The gas is off,
the cable’s near termination,
but you’re fine.
You sit and imagine
that everything you touch
is safe from
infection.
You can’t breathe, but
you don’t know how anymore
so you don’t miss it, really.
Dark Matter 