Jan 10th, 2018

I feel sick, no food except rotten vegetables left in a neglected kitchen in a cold apartment on the last few days of rent. Two AM and still tweeking, with tired haunted eyes and a permanent grimace, melancholy an operational default program set to stun, not kill. Have you heard of the ones who are trapped just outside the border in Syria? They have no food or water or protection. Have you heard that I was born a single whisper in a storm of whispers, and if you zoomed out from my head on a busy street sidewalk and kept rising up, looking down at all the heads moving to and fro, and if you kept rising and rising and rising you would eventually see all of Canada, and then the whole face of the earth, and onward and onward for millions of kilometers, on a scale so stupid you can hardly conceive? But then here in this apartment, the radiator ‘s tock tock tock, and every inhale, and every exhale, at the very same moment, at the same moment that those people have no food, no water, no safety, and at that very same moment, one trillion light years away, an enormous black hole. A black hole so powerful it could engulf our entire solar system, suck up all of existance within a trillion mile radius.

I will scrounge and recover from the fridge, the last few clementines yet to turn. I will eat these with the satisfaction of a 25 year old Montreal born male living on his own in the heart of the city who is overall tired of the city anyways. I will fall asleep, eventually, and wake up without needing necessarily, to do anything at all. And I will have another day to myself, for myself, on this one spot, and it could have been New York baby, but it was right here, it could have been anywhere momma, but it all happens for me, right here.

© 2019 james parm. all rights reserved.

  • SoundCloud Icon
  • Bandcamp Icon
  • White YouTube Icon
  • White Facebook Icon
  • Instagram Icon
  • White Twitter Icon
This site was designed with the
website builder. Create your website today.
Start Now