By Barry Basden
More than anything,
I need a way to get to her.
Some people can’t stand prosperity, she says.
I try mood music and
the ambient sounds of water–
ocean, jungle rain, a thunderstorm over the Rockies–
all to profound regret.
Chaos is all that works for me, she finally admits,
and we meet our violent end
in slow motion,
gradually crashing
through the windshield of our life together.
Not quick, not merciful.
Clutching at Straws 