Anymore.

2/12/21

How much further must it go
until I just can’t slow.
When the etchings never stop
until the robber from the cops
(with a bear mask on my head
(a great big new forehead))
filled thoughts of gremedy —
lacking security —
to point of seclusion
though, pardon my intrusion —
for this televised cereal
(in which nothing will prevail);
may it please stop at once —
can it please stop at once —
because I can’t do this anymore.