Greg's Real Fantasy (Prophecy)

I picked a head of cabbage,
green and light, and carried
it in my hands as I walked onto
an asphalt street and off to
a city. My Northern European
North American skin cells absorbed
ultra violet light. As night fell
and my feet were stuffed with blood,
filling out my worn-down dirty
sneakers, I went into a building
with a free restroom and sat
on a toilet and peed and pooped.

I set the cabbage on the counter
in front of the receptionist. He
looked at it with his thin brown
eyes. His neat dark hair rested
lightly on his almond-colored forehead,
and he said, "Do I know you...
sir?" He waited. "Do you have a
room here?" He peered at my eyes.
I stared off at the wall.
I breathed through my mouth.
Spit pooled behind my lower lip.
My eyes filled with water.
My legs lost feeling. I remember
a shitty generic painting of a sailboat
on a stormy sea. That was it.


Night fire
Not life

My mom is exhausted.
Sorry I have not done more.
Mom bot a birthday
cake for her staff.
She bot mini blueberry
muffins (breakfast cupcakes.)
She bot Klondike ice
cream sandwiches.
She bot all that at once.
It's not food.
I am listening to Fiddler's
Green by The Tragically Hip.
It ended as I was writing
"Tragically" in the last
sentence.
I feel sad that I felt
superior to this singing
man. I do not understand
why he sang those words
in that way. He probably
wanted to and maybe he
wanted people to hear,
because he thought it all good