i am not sure
what this is. i know there is a drop of
blood, and a few veins hanging from the ceiling. but
where did it all come from? what is the
genetic design, and why
does it haunt me. i
pulled a stitch out of my shoulder the other day;
i have felt better since. the
activists on the avenue surround me, there is a
cat that howls past my window at
exactly 10 every night.
over there, in the bucket. it’s your insides.
a window to the circus.
the last supper of words. and
we laugh it all off; life is a stand-up routine, or
better yet, a fucking roast.
charbroiler at 11. right past the feline, and
wait, it’s just a water bottle, distorting the hills.
sleep it off, and you will be restored by
morning’s return, a twinkle in an eye, a
burning pulse out from the sky.