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Speculative fiction writer from New York. For published work visit or buy me a coffee at
Photo by Sam Jean from Pexels

swivel chair, spin me somewhere
you are creaky and turbulent
and, like life, you revolve
but can you resolve, me…
can you absolve me…
go against the movement of time, you
slick and squeaky chair
the window above you
shows an overgrown wilderness
set inside a broken-down
urban mess
the epitome of destitution
feel the languor, the lassitude
of this overwhelming vicissitude
I fell asleep and woke up
four or five times in the same afternoon
how do you like that, circadian rhythms?
unlimited naps — a childhood dream come true
but the dreams are life
and the life…

Photo by Sam Jean from Pexels

not the homecoming you thought it’d be
actually, fuck this — it’s exactly the way I knew it would go
— the why’s and the how’s
— the what are you doing now’s
I see nods and tilted heads
and I’m spiraling, spiraling…
this place, it sucks ass
plain, simple mess
don’t want to be caught up in this shit
not now
not when I’m so low,
not when I’m so weak
please, help me run
— someone
where’s the garden? …

Photo by Sam Jean from Pexels

a bowl of wilted grape tomatoes
tells me it’s too hot to take a nap
my skin sticks to the plastic covering
on an ancient Italian chair
bread’s expired but not yet moldy —
I think the ‘best by’ date’s today
but today is basically over,
the season is basically over
the sun sets on everything, really
and before you know it, it’s always time to go
long pauses in disregarded friendships
threaten moisture from dusty eyes
and you watch a standard-def TV
because, well, the good one isn’t here
at least you’re in a part of the world where…

Photo by Sam Jean from Pexels

I’ll do a little thing today
to make it better than yesterday
look at it…
it’s all too much
but, see here — one piece at a time,
one bit, two bits, three
and I’ll change everything

in the fight against entropy,
it is a slow, steady battle
of wits and attitude and patience

it involves doing the hard thing,
again and again
until there are fewer hard things,
and then, you can just sort of live again

the dresser is dusty — dust it
the counter is dirty — clean it
your heart is wounded — stitch it

Photo by Sam Jean from Pexels

a fly and his friend float around
this hot, empty kitchen
a single fan oscillates in the corner
and one of them gets caught up in the wind,
swerves off its path
even the insects here are weak and slow —
they’re giving up

without glasses, I can see one perfectly up-close
as it lands on my hand — I examine it with my
I like the texture of its eyes
and its wings are pretty if not a little broken

its legs tickle me, just barely
and I should be grossed out, but I’m not —
this guy’s probably…

Photo by Sam Jean from Pexels

well, here we are
back to the start,
more or less —
feels like less — feels like worse,
but if I pay attention
and control the thoughts
I can see that it’s more —
it’s really more, it’s better —
and it’s more important than ever
to see what’s real,
to do the hard thing,
to confront the madness
and strip away all the pretty, shiny,
cover-it-all-up bullshit
that the people like to offer—
the whole world says you gotta be this
and feel that
buy this and do that
everyone who declares this is pretty
and that’s

Photo by Sam Jean from Pexels

still here
while I should be hailing down the salvage crew

a straggler, stranded, excluded wounded

bent and cowering — shamed for things
the universe declined to give

where’s the harbor?
where’s the relief?

go ahead, batter us some more
maybe the flesh can take it,
but the mind has been released long ago

so I’ll take another step
and another breath
and wait…
I’ll look around and wait…

do you think you’ll have a place for me?

I’ll need to convalesce —
yes, we all need time to rest

still here,
still here,
yet absent all my strength

Photo by Sam Jean from Pexels

suspended and awaiting the collapse,
drained and breathing heavy — muscles
pulled tight in a quantum field — the decision
won’t come, and the dwindling choices
threaten to make you
if you don’t make them first
but none of the paths are good —
just bad in different ways,
means to various ends —
ends that will unravel

no one cares that you’re poised on ruin
— no one cares you’re on the brink
of everything shattering…
riding a wave that’s taking forever to break,
but it’s got to break, it’s got to

the destruction is right
and necessary

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

The other ones are quiet
but strong — they make deeper sounds
that our ears cannot understand.
We’ve only seen them in ones or twos —
sometimes three — but there are stories
about how they live in groups, smaller than ours
of course, with their fat little children
and their senile old ones — toothless,
some with damaged legs, no longer able to hunt
or even make tools.
Yet these broad-browed ones, barrel chested, lion-maned —
they seem to care for their decrepit elders — parents
of their parents’ parents — as if there is something
to be revered about lasting…

Franco Amati

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