I build with words
though the desire is somehow
less than how little
I want to fix the steps on the deck.
I've got tons
of reasons to avoid that job
What if the tetanus gets me?

There's plenty else to do
and I've taken to avoiding things
by going on walks
proclaiming it a healthy move
using the watch
so it counts the exercise in a green ring
though it says
20 minutes is not enough.
I hope I don't collapse
in the street
so I'm not fucking up the traffic
like the rest of these morons.

At home, my son draws.
Every time I see him
steal an idea from a cartoon
and remix a story
I am jealous of how easy
it is for him to put the shine
on a blank page.
This is a true god
I think.
He makes and moves on
forgoing perfection
for the next idea
while I dote, dawdle, and drool
on this poem
on a Saturday night
while Monday morning
and work
puts the cold weight
of its gun muzzle
against the back of my head.
I can almost hear Sleep
run screaming into traffic.

Maybe I need to buy
one of those weighted blankets.
They say they help you sleep better
but I think fuck do I really need
to feel more suffocated in my bed
where technical questions come in the dark
like atomic hail
lighting up my nervous system
making me sit up so
I count zeroes and ones in my head
binary sheep
and breathe in and out
my heart going.

My ears heat up as I write this
and I think I've built
a nice torture chamber for myself
this life around.

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