Imitation Week 4

Entry 1:
Riff off Andrian Matejka's "Landscaped Postcard as Jimi Hendrix" part 2
"Dear Manic Depression,"

Dear Manic Depression,
Jimi was being polite. You’re a real asshole.
You keep me awake on the good days, the sun shoots its fingers through cloud breaks to touch
my blonde fur and leaves honey suckle kisses on my cheeks. All the trees wave me Good Mornings
and I cry because my chest hurts from swallowing the colors and the whole sky before
noon and I panic like a hummingbird locked in an airport bathroom and there you are, religious
mother in law, gum on the subway rail, heel in the sewer grate, gristle in these chicken nuggets
I waited all week to put in my mouth, your other half, uncomfortable and unwelcome,
and I forgot how to get out of my bed this morning because you slept there. And I forgot
how to fly. Well, I think I’ll go turn myself off. Thom Yorke told me, by way of a friend,
“be constructive with your blues.” So, I wrote you this letter, my partner in
everything. Listen up, asshole. We need some time apart.

Entry 2:
From Adrian Matejka’s “What the Dead are Mission Out On”
“Permanence, like the stains on a motel pillow./ Her voice, whoever she was.”

Whoever she was, she wasn’t what he expected
behind Door Number 2- A car, maybe. A dishwasher
or a nice china set, but a woman? In a black dress like moon
kissed diamond walkways like they have out in California,
she stood there and he thought about the one that did not get away
but walked away rather, slow without slamming doors or
singing curses, slow like how your mom tells you in third grade
not to pull off the Band-Aid. She left him with Better As Friends
and I Care About You Too Much To Let You Love Me, that,
and a plum dab of impermanence on his neck from the night
a week ago before her voice turned into a pillow stain on hand stitched corners.
All he had was an empty tank and no seatbelts- and the lady behind
Door Number 2. And he thought, this is what the dead are missing out on-
Lucky bastards.