brackish flow

my mind is still
with the flat-lined frozen echo
of a cold conversation
between me particles
on matters of me
metaphysical heart
and their indifference
to the rotting goop phenomenon, and


for a moment,
i smell my own decay and
feel useful and
natural,
for the first time since he was carbonized.
like one link in a conga line.
i’m not dancing alone.


this passes, and
i thank them
as the feeling turns
to a memory
of some bullshit cliche lesson about
going with the flow.