Scrid

If magic doesn’t anymore basements flood.

Avoid attaching,

warns my therapist,

when I predict flooding.

Instead,

observe your thoughts

which are like clouds, no?

In an exaggerated Maine accent,

she leans forward and says,

“If ya don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes!”

feeling clever.

*

My thoughts have a voice that is not mine,

I notice,

a gravelly baritone, a man married to his pipe

who works a boat through winter.

Sometimes on the water, says the voice of my thoughts

that is not my voice but are my thoughts,

you’re pulling pots in a spot of sun

when all around you, rain.

*

My thoughts can turn on a dime,

unlike opinions,

I tell my therapist,

who has a sweet face

and swears her grown kids love her.

*

One out of five children is hungry,

my thoughts say at 6:06pm,

clearly not fucking around

since I’m sawing into a bloody ribeye.

And many homeless adults

are kids who aged out of foster care.

Don’t let that steak go cold.

*

Guns are the leading cause of death in children,

mention my thoughts in response

to getting stuck behind a school bus.

*

Some thoughts do not have Lobsterman’s voice.

Some are like a sudden smear of color,

a male cardinal at the feeder,

gone as quickly as he arrived,

everyone who glimpsed him now acting

like they can communicate with the dead.

*

I wake every night at 2am,

clenching a bullet between my teeth.

Don’t clench! says the dentist,

as the needle sinks into my cheek,

Or consider this $400 mouthguard

that your insurance will never cover

and you will never wear.

*

The dentist drills while Dylan plays from a tinny speaker.

My thoughts suggest Dylan was a bit of an asshole,

too busy eclipsing the sun

to wash his pants.

*

Everything’s frozen solid today

but will climb into the 60’s and hover,

unnatural for February,

snowmelt sans sump pump

flooding basements,

but just think how good

the sun for sallow skin,

Seize the spoils of war!

*

We’re just prefab houses, I tell my therapist,

dropped on crumbling soil,

manufactured following the accepted custom

of planned obsolescence.

*

I picture the windburnt man

who vocalizes my thoughts

removing his vinyl gloves,

tamping tobacco into his pipe,

hunched against the wind.

I see a wave coming, he says, adjusting his oilers.

It’s ‘uge.

*

Watch. Stay curious.

Inhale, to the count of five,

exhale, to the count of five.

Hold the pause in between,

the tiny point of stillness

where breathing stops,

and nothing suffers.

*

Sometimes you pull pots

under a single, livid cloud

when everywhere else, sun.