What Happened to Norway?

Don Quixote and Hemingway await the day where I make my mind up

on what I want for my life. Their silent speeches keep me awake.

Yelling at me from the bookshelf. Watching my every move.

They cannot hear the way my soul aches in agony.

They cannot hear the way my heart pounds.

You know how it is. Joy and fear make no sound.

Somehow.

If I could only. If only, again.

If only I could hear them.

They would scream like a healing bruise.

Oh! And, it’s not the moon I tell you.

It’s these flowers. Soaked in plant food –

Plant feed.

Wrapped in plastic. Wilting.

I hate them.

I hate them like I hate that fucking red

fucking Folgers fucking coffee can –

(I only love when it is disgusting.)

Full of souvenirs and patinaed brass.

They glare back at you when you glare at their glass. The sun rises.

They regret bitterly the example you have made of their history.

It interests me to be afraid.