Infinite

They don't call things like these temporary

Photo by Cole Keister on Unsplash.

A doctor’s job is to diagnose and treat his
patients, not
empathize with them.

Thoughts go down lawless
with black coffee while a gaggle
of turkeys move like
a glottal stop in
the grass, Infinite Jest opened to just beginning,
on my
lap where,
incidentally, David Foster Wallace
writes about
fifth-floor psych wards in
hospitals (God bless the suiciders most
seriously suiciding) and
neurodivergents (everyone is neurodivergent since last year).

Two pillows separate me from
the couchback,
positioned so that I lean against
armrest and pillows without
the sensation of falling.

Dreariness comes over
me, fall leaves like
physicians assistants and MDs,
latex gloves blown
into roosters by children.

They don’t call this
horror — looking at
grassy fields of wild turkeys while
unlacing my boots to let
my feet breathe,
so they don’t comprehend
why today is a perfect
day to die, they are still looking
for things that make
sense like line drives and math, but
this is incalculable, more
like first love.

(turkeys, they move, like, patterns,
turkeys, they are, like, patterns,
turkeys, create, patterns)

I am on railroad tracks, and am on
railroad tracks at all times,
doc says the feeling is in
my head, but reception and love and fear and
reality and proscription are all
in my head,
loneliness, therefore, is something I feel.

The heron, with its treble-hook-feet,
steps exactly,
pivots his long-bill-head like a robot while
my fingers, red-tipped, press
the coffee table and turn
white.

This is a good day to be
alive, rain falling like pebbles, Infinite Jest slides
off my left
knee.

A doctor’s job is to diagnose and treat his
patients, not
empathize with them, which is,
maybe, why some of
them die.

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Hey, I’m Roman. I’m working on my debut novel, 20XX, a work in magical realism. I write on Substack.