Timothy Thomas McNeely
Too much food left lying around uneaten by ants – hot dogs, French fries, RC Cola, all of it. I used the time when I was going to call my mom to bring about a fruit fly apocalypse. I’ll call my mom tomorrow. She’ll be happy that I’ve cleaned the place. I was going to launch my app today for sure. My grandma’s done really well on the Internet sells custom emoji – the sunglasses have sold tons. But my computer is probably dying. It can’t think two thoughts together anymore. I need one that’s RAM-rich, so if it ever crashes, at least I can sell the wool. At this point a woman walks by with a power strip sticking out of her back pocket. They drop briefly into French. If I die at 40, fuck it. Sometimes it’s natural. Like, I have a heart murmur, but it’s fine. It’s good. It doesn’t affect anything. Not like my vein insufficiency. Hey, you should get a few leaches, clear things out. My heart feels good, though. My spiritual heart is good. I got sick once from stuff happening, life stuff. Like, I got a cold, then strep, then the flu, too. But when that stuff in life went away, I got better. I’m trying to meditate nowdays, keep things cleaned up. Nothing for the mice or ants or flies or anything.
Timothy Thomas McNeely’s poetry appears in the Washington Poetic Routes project, Cascadia Rising Review, Gravel and Creative Colloquy. A poetry reader for The Adroit Journal, he holds a MLitt in Creative Writing from the University of St Andrews and a MA in Continental Philosophy from the University of Essex. Timothy lives in Tacoma, Washington. Find him @ttmcneely.