Forty-Five Minutes

Forty-Five Minutes
JCD KERWIN

One, two, three a.m. and I’m staring, blinking, glaring at the ceiling like I’ve got a grudge against the shadows. Tossing and turning makes the stitch in my side itch. I have to lie straight to keep myself from screaming but I can’t dream think the right way without shoving pillows over my face.

Must refuse to move
until
the pain stops and
my heartbeats
d
r
o
p.

[Maybe if
I crush these tabs,
they’ll last a little longer,
be a little stronger;
make me
a little better at
not being me.]

The guy behind the desk says I’m supposed to believe in myself. I sink farther into the couch and wonder why upholstery’s always more plush in small rooms even though you’re never in the mood to sit still.

(I tell him I like the paintings of the Ming Dynasty Treasure Ships. They came with the office, he says. None of them ever know where the pictures come from.)

It all goes back
to my childhood:
where my family
went did wrong.

Separate yourself.
Cut yourself off
from everything
that hurts you.

He says.

Easier said
than done.

I say.

And the other guy throws pills at me, changing his mind with each visit. He can’t decide what makes
me messed up
inside.

Neither can I.

[Which is why I
line up orange bottles
in Chess lines,
like they’re pawns and I
am running from
the pugilist glove
that will crush me if
I don’t keep ahead of
the other me’s
next move.]

I am unimpressed with the depression of my facial expression. It gets quite old. But I don’t know how to climb out from puddles I rained out all alone.

He tells me plenty of people have sat where I sat, feeling hopeless, but they dug out, just like I will. I ask when that will be…

Right now I’m spelunking in the dark.

(October 2015)

Utopia Published

Hey, today “Utopia” was published in Pankhearst magazine. (A very hardcore, raw magazine, which is right up my alley. Check them out. They’re hella cool.)

Check it out: Utopia in Pankhearst

Burnt Socks

abandoned Laundromat at Night 2008 Laurie Nix

Burnt Socks

JCD Kerwin

I lost a friend
today.
We were
in separate boxes,
never looking
at eachother.
We were
content to be
separate planets
orbiting suns
in opposite ends
of the galaxy.
We were
never meant
to be
anything more
than pennies and dimes
mixed in a vending machine,
lost in time
to be change for
some grass heads’ four-twenty munchies.
Yet I
still feel guilt
for letting you go,
even though
I  know
we would never have been
anything more
than two
mismatched socks
lost in the back
of some old
laundromat.

July 2015

Numb

Comfortably Numb by JohnKyo (DeviantArt)

Numb
JCD Kerwin

It’s 9 pm in July.
I hang my arm
out the car window
so I can feel
the cold so I
can feel something
other than me—
the humanity
of me.

I keep it there
until it numbs;
the feeling spreads
deep into my heart.
I smile;
thankful for
an emotion other than
depression.

I’m sick of
never-ending
existentialism.
I wish I could
wake up and become
a robot just like them.
At least then I wouldn’t
feel pain anymore;
I’d just feel nothing
at all.

(July 2015)

Three Bucks Out of Luck

Three Bucks Out of Luck
JCD Kerwin

I met God the other day,
on a Tuesday afternoon.
He was smoking French cigarettes
and drinking black coffee.
“What this meeting all about?”
I asked and sipped my own
liquefied Arabica beans.
“You’re right; you’re all damn fucked,
just like you thought you were.”
And then he laughed and put a pair of Oakleys
over two different colored eyes.
I watched him raise a pigeon from the dead
as he passed on down the sidewalk.
Once roadkill of taxis that didn’t give a damn,
now it bobbed and waddled in the muck
of our humanity.
“We’re all just fucked anyway.”
I played with the spoon on my saucer
and watched coffee droplets turn into constellations.
The Milky Way is only a figment of our imaginations—
Andromeda is one of a thousand daytrips we can take
anytime we’d like.
I tip the mug and watch the coffee pour.
I leave without paying because I know it doesn’t matter.
Three bucks and a dime aren’t worth a damn
when we’re all just fucked anyway.

June 2015