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The world begins to rest, in theory. Trees subtract chlorophyll
from their leaves, then the leaves entirely
their bare branches reaching to the sky as though
they can grasp the snow that supposedly will follow
the cold winds barely beginning to coat New England.
Rebellion against our hyper-productive world
looks like waiting, like lounging, like laziness
lazy lounge lizard, my mom calls me, though
a live lizard lives in my bedroom, resting constantly.
Whoopie, the lizard's name, has no productivity.
No goals except hunt for crickets, dive after mealworms,
sleep with your little legs upturned knowing no predator will
dare betray the home you've made in this unnatural place.
outside predators lurk around every corner, though so too does
rest, slumber, playful squirrel squabbles and
and - and - and - my brain took a rest mid-thought
arrest mid-thought, as though thought police exist to arrest me
which they would if they did, exist that is, but they don't...
Rest by definition means to cease work
so can I rest if I have never worked? If, like my lazy lizard
my days exist in hazy consumption, until my stomach's hard,
and brief glimpses outside the terrarium?
Rest must exist because exhaustion exists even in the in-between
rejection, acceptance... why bother applying, resume thrown away sight unseen
again and again, throwing oneself to the predators takes work
though their digestion of my remains might, technically, qualify as rest.
The world begins to rest, and I continue to fail at humanity,
watching said world from behind a computer screen, behind a physical window
outside of which squirrels prepare for their own upcoming break.
ns 15.158.61.11da2
