Like a drowned sack of puppies
you float meticulously
in the realms of the pearly tower,
aspiring anonymity of the
Instead, presumptuous of what I am
the monster reeking in the cubicle
next door,
riding roughly through life
like a sand paper cock,
telling me to fit in,
quiet down a bit
and belong with the noiseless wind chimes
in the hurricane.
You want to kill your voice
like mildew smothered
in air.
I would rather choke on the
fluid in my lungs,
spitting up blood from the expectorants
and pills,
chemicals that deteriorate,
going down like a
dead goose
into a lake, never retrieved
but wanted desperately.

Zach Fishel

Zach Fishel is a recent Pushcart nominee and graduate student at the University of Toledo. His work has appeared or is forthcoming from Gloom Cupboard, A Few Lines Magazine, Magic Cat Press, Bolts of Silk, The Montucky Review, Mad Swirl, and many others. His mantra is rye or die, and he can read palms if the price is right. Feel free to find him on Facebook.

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