I wonder if the problem lies with me
or infinity. Each day is its own kind
of monster. More and more advertising
speaks directly to me. Hearing but not
listening. Listening but not hearing.
Hot breath in my ear while I try
to pick the lock on these handcuffs
with my teeth. I need to touch the side
of my nose. To tug on my ear. Something
to signal I am still aware. Something
to show I am still keeping score. Sometimes
a river just drys up but the evidence
It was there remains. If you know
how to look for it. In the future
when we die, we won’t be buried.
We will be downloaded.
— PATRICK MEEDS
Patrick Meeds lives in Syracuse, New York, and studies writing at the Syracuse YMCA’s Downtown Writer’s Center. He has been previously published in Stone Canoe the New Ohio Review, Tupelo Quarterly, the Atticus Review, Door is a Jar, Guernica, The Pinch, and Nine Mile Review among others.
His first book, The Invisible Man’s Tailor, is available from Nine Mile Press.