A Draft of Something

We would sit in the chair after half a cup of coffee
faces like brown paper bags crumpled
in what others call thought
but we would call nothing.

Those mornings — are there any other
kind — those mornings every song is blue
and the “wonderful world” speaks to us
with a grammar as strange as snail-speak

Oh and everyone wants to know
what we are thinking. Because to them it seems
the thinking man and the desperate man both
place their faces into their bronze fists

though our faces tend to slip deeper
into the palms and over the eyes. And the wonder they perceive
in us — curved spine glazed stare — is not wonder
is not thought is not anything and is nothing

like Hamlet’s existential question
because to be is no better for us than to not be
and that is the real rub the real iron foot
that presses us down like grapes

in a cracked winepress that bleeds us
through the cracks. And what they see as thought
is in fact a slow absorption — a dissolving
into the detritus that demands our allegiance.

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