Something Like a Coma
Johanna M. Geiger
If this is what it takes to be famous,
I might not be interested.
On the other hand, I have nothing better to look forward to.
Between the way you sleep and
the ways I think about dying, I might just need a hobby,
like fame,
to keep me interested
Except, I know I have to read in order to be able to write well.
I know I have to read if I’m going to get anywhere at all.
Sometimes I think about how I’m ever going to travel if I’m never moving forward
if I’m never searching for that veiny part of you –
the mushy sickness of all your blood and guts spilling out a pathway
here.
I am walking, but getting nowhere.
I am reading, but no longer picking up a pen to write.
There is a spilling, an urge to run, but
as I’ve said there’s no distance
far enough away.
