t was something. Out of nowhere, I didn’t give a shit about anything for like a month. Like nothing. I mean yeah, there’d been plenty of times where I didn’t give a shit about something. Oh that thing? Yeah, fuck that thing. I did it all the time. Multiple things even. Had to. It was part of life, sure. But this time it transcended all things and applied to everything. Like your brain after a severe blow, turning off all functions except what’s needed—breathing, but that’s about it. I just didn’t give a shit, for better or worse. Things I liked / things I didn’t like, didn’t matter. Didn’t want to paint. Didn’t want to write. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. Respond to emails or texts. None of it. I barely went outside even. Just baseline survival. And sure, I had
Two Poems by Matt Broaddus
When I was regionalthey let me have handsdelicately they let me out of the factory I was freeto draw lines with borrowed handsfailing to reproducethe one treegrowing sideways out of the one coffee shopsuch were the nutritional demandsof the national