Like a bast of Russian winter

it hit me:

“I don’t know anything.”

I was driving my little

Ford Focus along

Cumberland Avenue.

Eyes opened up

As my soul began to race:

“I don’t even know if the sky is the sky,”

I remember seeing

a mob of seagulls

zigzag over to my left

where the ‘projects’ begin.

Cells Phones,

Soda,

My thoughts,

Your thoughts,

Air- what the hell is that?

Yogurt,

Those tiny spoons you use at extravagant events:

Everything has dried up and become one big indistinguishable prune.

“You must be in more pain than I am each day,”

I say to my best friend, who’s relapsed again

and passed out on the couch.

I think that’s just about the only thing I know.