All About Nothing

ALL ABOUT NOTHING I waste in verbalism. The sounds come out of my mouth swimming in the gray afternoon; their white swollen bellies float as if they are dead fish in a polluted aquarium with an equal proportion of water and sand. The words seem to have a purpose; they fall around me disintegrating in syllables as I spread them thin on the coffee cups, and I am not afraid of an explosion when my audience roll their eyes “whatever” they don’t say it but I feel it. As if they didn’t go through that. I uncoil.