What Thoughts May Come

  The moon has been out, and full. I feel a pulling, a pinching, between my armpits and breasts. Anxiety. And Sadness. Whose voice is there? I cannot say. Stop. Pause. Wait. And everybody is so esoteric in  their grief. Not esoteric, existential? Has the package shipped? Where does it go. I think if I could learn to play, then I could dance with it; but movement drags. Stop. Pause. Wait. What happens in the spaces?Blue bird. Waiting for something to say. In their grieving, they find the words; in mine, I shut down. I don't want to fake it, and I'm afraid that I won't make it, so I don't do anything at all. Fear, and jealousy, and envy—my greatest obstacles. Stop. Pause. Wait. Read. Maybe it's dark matter pulling on me, or out of me...invisible, and subtle, but effecting change nonetheless. The dark matter annihilation in me powers the Dark Star. Isn't this what You were saying? Those who pass by closely, feel the energy and buzz of the dark star, feel the light and heat, the spark and sizzle, maybe just a little singe, and come away enlightened, invigorated, inspired; those who fall in are doomed to annihilation, to feed the spectacle, not drawing their own in, but losing their particular particles in the mass void. Consumed without ritual or notice. The Dark Star powered by a Wimp, without which it cannot exist. Can I generate my dark matter into my own star formation? Draw them in and churn it out? But even this is flimsy, and took longer than it should have (who says should?) and now I don't want to any more, because this will never make a difference, not to me, or to You, or to them. But pizza, pizza makes a difference.