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  • Paul Lojeski

Stressed Out

Stressed Out

I’m my own murder scene.

One-eyed, bloody-nosed medics,

circle the corpse that is me,

even though I’m smiling and

wink and sing out, how’s it

going boys? But no one answers

including those thick-waisted

trees bending in the screaming

hurricane, nor a gang of cops

scurrying in, smoking, spitting,

grabbing crotches as if there’s

meaning or magic there

instead of mundane menace.

Blue fire at the horizon flares

brighter, as I’m tossed on

the gurney and rolled into the hearse

they claim is an ambulance.

It all makes sense to me, though,

I tell the heavily-armed woman

at checkout of my favorite grocery,

the one selling tins of purified

air guaranteed to extend mortality

by 11% or your money back.

Or more likely your next of kin’s

because you’ll be dead then, but I’m

not, at least, I don’t think I am.

—Paul Lojeski


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