by jim benz
At twelve o’clock, revulsion / on the telephone
and a yellow blur / cutting ribbons in my head:
dissolultion / of yesterday’s joy ride, or was it
today’s? On the path / to the phone, a clutter
of beer cans and bottles. / They reach
for my ankles, claw / at my toes
like some sort / of zoned-out zombies. I scratch
my ass. What movie / did we watch last night?
The room spins / slowly, melodiously,
as I wander through / the hollow clank
of empty beer cans, shuffling / feet, ringing
phones. Something / needs to change. I startle
at the sound of someone snoring / through the open
window. I look outside / and there you are,
sprawled out on the lawn like someone’s / dirty laundry.
What will the neighbors / think? Do I care?
At least you made it / down the stairs. Even so,
the phone / just won’t stop ringing, ringing
like a fucking nightmare. / That’s what I call it:
my phone, / the fucking nightmare.
It never stops. I pick it up and its / my boss:
“uh huh, yeah I know, I’ll be in.”
Son of a bitch. Something / needs to change.