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alien

by Michael Passafiume


You awake long before the alarm
can begin its incessant whine,
body a purpose-less stranger,
bed a black hole from which you will
eventually extricate yourself
but not before losing
a few more stars, a few more rings.
 
Back, stomach, side to side...
best thing you can do to fall back
asleep is not think so,
of course, you begin to think:
endless meditations on death
(really, you could win a goddamn medal),
back, stomach, side to side...
an occasional I’d complain, but who’d listen?
back, stomach, side to side...
deep dive into existential angst,
& on & on & on & on...

Finally, you rise, clumsy feet navigating
an unsteady universe,
eyes burning, stomach intoning
its familiar empty lament.
Dressed, shoed & gazing into
a newly formed wormhole called
The Bathroom Mirror:
“In space, no one can hear you scream.”
Silence a house of cards,
Each card a locked door,
Mind a master key
with broken teeth.
 
Oh, yes,
it’s going to be
one of those days. 
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Michael Passafiume is a Brooklyn, NY-based writer who holds an MFA in poetry from Antioch University Los Angeles. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flypaper Magazine, The Manhattanville Review, Meat for Tea and Mojave Heart, among others. His chapbook, "archipelagos," was published by Blue Hour Press in 2015.
Photo credit: Rachael Warecki, CameraRAW Photography