Something happened 		to me.
I don’t know. 	The world is		shifting 
a          
  r        
   o
     u
       n	    m
         d	      e,
phasing between 		what I imagine to 
	be different		realities, the way my father
sat on the couch and sifted 	through TV 	channels, bor-
ed, on a Saturday morning. Which is to say, 
						I am bored					
and

		alone.

Feet sinking into the soft sand of a seaside beach resort. Click. 
Children catching snowflakes in a clearing of pines. Click.
Strange plains of azure clay, cracked, abandoned wasteland. Click.
Red crystalline stars, spread in space ... am I floating? Click.
A bar, taps of Bud Right, Buddumber, bottles of Batardi—
A reality so similar to home, yet not quite the same, makes me miss—
							I want a drink.
					I’ve wanted a drink. 
			Sometimes I want to 	
r	e	a	c	h 	out and grasp onto 
something. A glass. Sip until my thoughts become nothing
but mumbled garbageeeeaaaajjjjjlllllkmmmmmggrrrrr
							   Click.
There’s never enough time to hold onto something, change something. 
Floating amidst orbs of fjkdl akdjfl dkla; and whisps of fkdla; dkl. Do I
have the sensory organs required to process this? 
				  		      Click.
I see you. Yes you, with the poem in your hand. You. Can you read this? 
Please tell me you can read this. Say something. Say something to me. A
reaction. Please, let me know I’m not just a thought floating in space, 
neurons firing in a jar of plasma, ones and zeros in a computer, words
on a page. Let me know I’m still— Click.