& 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.
