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written by: A. Peetz



Pursuing a frictionless life:
I was tractionless,
unbridled momentum
shunning any grip.

Slip on slick intentions,
bash my mandible
on the concrete.

Once beneath my feet,
now cradles my bloody chin,
sends shock waves
through my jaw,
permeates the blood-brain barrier,
my only defense
against invasion.

The squatters move in
like this is Tijuana,
and I’m a rich American
with a sense of entitlement.

Taught that happiness
is my birthright,
and satisfaction is
an absolving sacrament
swallowed on Sunday morning;
the world is mine.

So why doesn’t my Wii controller
have more power?

Why does the dog bite
when I say, “sit”?

Why can’t I crack open a Buddha statue
and find enlightenment?

Why won’t the squall
send a rogue wave
to swab the decks,
bleach the blood
from my shirt,
and extinguish the anguish
that prevents my synapses
from completing their arc?

The promise perished;
I'm awash.

A. Peetz

A. Peetz

A. Peetz is a little bit of everything and a whole lot of nothing: a curious intellectual, a hyper delinquent, an impatient teacher, a student of Buddhism, a fanatical minimalist, a consummate opportunist, a music addict, and a sober realist. Her punk poetry has been published and performed. She also writes incendiary stories in the wildfire-scorched hills outside of Los Angeles, CA.
A. Peetz

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