I have a cough I cannot kick. People on the subway are scared of me, like they actually inch away as much as they can when they hear me. And people at work call me Ol' Death Rattles.
(But Mom, don't worry, I am getting better. Medicine.)
It's Friday. I'm going to get sushi on a conveyer belt today. Have you ever been to one of those restaurants? The sushi moves kind of quickly, and you only pick up what you want to eat and pay for:
The plates are different colors, which indicates the level of pricing of each dish that goes past you on the conveyer belt.
I went to one for the first time 2 weeks ago and it was really fun. BUT before that, I had walked into a resturant like this a few times and then walked out again because the pace of the conveyer belt made me anxious. Yes, sushi conveyer belts used to provoke anxiety attacks. That's embarrassing.
Anyways, Michael Rerick's new chapbook, X-Ray, just came out (Flying Guillotine Press):
Order it here: Flying Guillotine. Look, a poem of Rerich's from MiPOesias:
We have nothing to say. We keep talking:
we, frightened deep thought of cold things machines.
We work patiently away at our lives.
We follow you from hotel to hotel.
Our rendezvous makes us a little less
who we are outside the world outside us.
Our scalpels make dissected animals,
newer and newer layers revealing
sentence structures with wet, frightened letters.
We make a transparent machine, make it
make graphs easy to see through, make it put
important us things into a number.
We have not forgotten your names, and you
move one move ahead, as calculated.