Here, before this computer screen, I am a glazed donut

sequacious (si-KWAY-shuhs) adjective

Unthinkingly following others.

The pulse, this machine's pulse, it sucks me dry, dry. I must find a way, a way outside.

Pigeon Holed

clay pigeon (klay PIJ-uhn) noun

Someone in a situation vulnerable to be taken advantage of.

Clay has a headset on and sits hunched over his workplace computer, scrolling through a webpage chronicling the effects of a chemical breach in upstate New York. His mouth agape, eyes half-shut, Clay imagines an onsite newscaster delivering the article's words: a cleancut, blue-blazered boy named something unwavering like Geoff Tammer, with stable eyebrows and a monotone voice that pronounces words with an annoying precision.

"...agephsitrin, a common chemical used in farms to increase livestock immunity to pesticides, previously thought harmless, is now being attributed to the death of nearly 100 cows in New York state alone. Farmers as far away as Michigan and Iowa have reported comparable deaths--"

He skims further down the webpage and encounters an interview. Here, a farmer emerges in his mind: dusty, dirty, donning overalls and a baseball cap; patchy facial hair, missing key teeth; underweight, or overweight, kind of hard to tell; and rusty, tight-jawed accent.

"First theyes look atcha bit clawdy, tongues'l dry and breff smellin sometin awfl. Then they's loosin weht...fastr n fastr. Jus ner fall ovr ded n to days time. Ain't nottin yous kindu. Nottin nobodys kindu. Jus gotta live, kno? Ho'l farm dead, nerly. Ho'l farm."

Sometimes Memories Feel Like Pocket Lint

verbigeration (vuhr-bij-uh-RAY-shun) noun

Obsessive repetition of meaningless words and phrases.

A month passes without a peep and here I am, a train stopped in spring. Sixty degrees outside, the sun shines calm rays while I sip coffee and contemplate change. Like the weather, I stumble between decisions--a week of heat, a day of frost--but May always stands as a month of assertion and finality, of graduation. Part of this past April included a breakfast conversation with my mom. She flew in to attend a conference downtown and we scheduled a morning one-on-one, an understood kind of meeting with expectations of such phrases as "your future" and "you can always" and "don't worry". No matter the gravity of the moment or situation, Mom (in a universal sense, really, or at least, hopefully) delivers a wisdom of balance. Over Swedish pancakes and eggs she said, "Zach, just make a choice. It doesn't matter what it is. When you make it, that will be the right one. But you have to make a choice."

Faced now with a cap and gown
only visible to me,
I must reconcile all the trials
and try again to dream.