Getting Famous

The cats of love are hunting
a little red dot; they sit
nonchalantly on this poem
in my lap they see my attention
falls on it they act
like they don’t depend on me—
and I don’t know the cat words
to ask if they would be my friend if
I stopped feeding them, if I stopped
opening the door for them.
Last night I
couldn’t decide whether to go out
and die a while
or stay in and die forever.
Today I woke up
with the distinct feeling
of melted ice cream because
everybody convinced me
to get famous as quickly as I could
and laughed at me once I did it.
 
 

Bewildered

I have spent
            almost an hour
mashing together hummus with
a dull metal fork,

                        thinking of you,

and how you got
to where there was

just      you

            and death—

this hummus will grind to dust,
me thinking of you picking death.
 
 
 
Eric Wallgren lives in Chicago and plays bass in mtvghosts. He’s online at ericwallgren.tumblr.com.