& I don’t e’en mind this time—

stuffy hair-ridden jacket

with itchy zippers,

sticky bottom lip stuck with slivers.

Time races

with feet glued to gooey tarmack,

trapped for dour hours in shiny hot cracks.

¿Why keep the pinecones

you don’t e’en play with no mo’?

¿& why dream o’ snowcones in the sun?

When the icy moon melts every revolution.

Dusty pages make me wheeze,

red eyes in white heat

in hellish darkness swarm

maggot-colored fireflies.

Through the round looking glass stained

with wasp guts

becons light

leading down the well

to a heaven

scientifically proven by Dr. Healey

to be hotter than hell.

You’re just losing focus ’gain.

¿Why can’t you bloom on ruby gin

like the rest o’ them,

like the best o’ them?

¿When’d I e’er have the crystal?

It’s clear.

It’s clear.

puts down_glass

puts_down glass

puts_down_glass

I feel the cobwebs on my face

as if the past few threads had been erased.

Wipe the wine right off your face

& spit the stale grapes from your taste

& find a better palette with which to paint.

…

Maybe ’nother day…

This mer soleil is great, though;

sitting back as the waves foam,

tittering as your white blanket

takes me to sunnier pines.

& I haven’t been minding this entire time.