Waking up in the dark with an idea again is confusing. My body and the trees want it to be cold so they now sweat in the mid 70’s when the sheet twists and constricts the left leg upset by a sleep rhythm compromised with another good idea. I didn’t walk around and out of the room towards the suburban road that I hate so much. A car passes on it, the accomplice to going nowhere. Nowhere stays still and waits for rush hour to start into the wood-chipper cleaning up limbs brought by hurricane Michael to give the Jones’ some family conversation without screen distractions. Their prayers were heard by nowhere, the relief of satisfying an addiction. Addicted to buzzwords like addiction and opioid crisis, stop using those pots and pans they’re for guest dinners! Dinner with polite tones and levels picked up by dishes. Dishes aimed at nowhere with nothing aiming back.
ryan meyer art rapid prose poem 1