Scrid

If magic doesn’t

basements flood.

Avoid attaching, warns my therapist,

when I predict flooding.

Instead, observe your thoughts

which are like clouds, non?

In an exaggerated Maine accent, she says,

“If you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes.”

‍ ‍

*

My thoughts have a voice

that is not my own.

A gravelly baritone.

A man married to his pipe

who fishes 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 dinner,

clearly not fucking around since I’m sawing into a bloody ribeye.

And many homeless adults are kids who aged out of foster care,

so don’t you dare let that fucking steak go cold.

*

Guns are the leading cause of death in children in the U.S.,

say my thoughts in response to getting stuck behind a bus.

*

Some thoughts do not have the fisherman’s voice.

Some are like a male cardinal flashing,

everyone who saw him now pretending

they can communicate with the dead.

*

I wake every night at 2am,

a bullet between my teeth.

Don’t clench! says the dentist,

as the needle sinks into my cheek.

Or consider this $600 mouthguard

that your insurance will never cover and you will never wear.

*

The dentist drills while Bob 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 flooding basements.

‍ ‍

But don’t worry!

Think about how good the sun

will feel on 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,

hunching against the wind to catch a spark.

I see a wave coming,

he says, adjusting his oilers.

And it’s ‘uge.

*

Shut up.

Watch.

Inhale to the count of five,

exhale to the count of five.

Hold the pause,

that tiny point of stillness

where everything stops

and nothing suffers.

*

My thoughts with a voice

that is not my own rakes

fingers through a rimy beard.

Sometimes you pull pots

under a single livid cloud

when everywhere else sun.