hunting for lobsters

:::DISCLAIMER::: THIS IS AN ASSIGNMENT FOR SCHOOL and it's still in a pre-workshop state. i am not a poet. i don't even particularly like poetry. by no means do i intend for this or any post tagged as "voluntary torture" to be taken seriously. (wait, let's just make that "any post").

if it helps get you through the trauma of being subjected to my floundering attempts at non-prose, i will tell you that this one is about the process of recovering from a brain injury (more accurately, the process of trying to figure out how to help someone ELSE recover from a brain injury). the lobster shit is just some of the countless fucked up nonsense i heard out of the mouth of that brain-injured person. if it doesn't help? i'm not surprised.



lobes leaking, jostled
stem taught, pink bands of rubber
snapped, intersections collapsed, detours
fed, through the culvert in your torso,
no traffic on the larynx, hydrated through
pulsing byways, ventilated through
tracheal tunnels, rebuild
highways, crossing of movement and
of thought and of waking, we have no plans
for this grand project, we found no architects
inspired, there is nothing to inspire
them, just asphalt, and we grow used
to detours, then there is more
than nothing, unsettling, but not enough
to call something, bids submitted, cement
marbles sliced through with cerulean, contracts
signed in cerise, take your shotgun
hunting for lobsters and shellfish, dogs
trailing as you are wheeled
down sterile hallways, as bridges
are suspended, spinning, still not something
we have to remember the construction, you
just have to commute