diet root beer

i keep a list of culprits as my phone screen.
sometimes you have so good a day
you forget, even if only briefly,
that you're living in a capitalist hellscape. 
maybe a mushroom remembers your name
or maybe you are the lover you always wanted to be.
then, i always end up in the dorm room with
brown windows. amber blooded little newt.
the coughing room. a closet where
mice come to eat my homework. every day
i write a parable about shoeless girls 
& a milky pond. wash my face in the ceiling.
i caught an angel once. he screamed & it tore a hole
in my happiness. thank god for that. i don't think
i want to be happy. i want to be full. 
i collect diet root beer bottles & cans & i am
well aware this is not what i need. we become 
ant colonies in our grief. what can be built.
who is the queen. i wasted too many years
eating salads. never jumped off the right roof.
a coffin of bottle caps. carbonated night.
i stir my face with a wooden spoon. drink
the prehistoric broth. what kind of soup are you?
i am the folding chair tongue & the headlight prophet.
online i order something wonderful 
that i do not need at all. it will be here 
between blinks. catastrophic light. the dead cell phone 
& her tower where all our questions live.
i brought lovers over. we kissed so long
that we forgot the light. burnt caramel glow.
a face in the window. the unfinished god 
watching to see how we will survive.