They’ve shut the entrance to the staircase with bloody wooden planks

They spit in my pickle jar and evacuate the bacteria from my gut

They clean me, inside out, so that I am dry to hang and hang I do

In somnolent days I see between the threads of reality but those are

Those are just the bed sheets above the lawn

Have always found insects in the bed

They get in my way with their sounds

No one wants an explanation, they prefer I be crazy

I don’t kno why people enjoy bad things

But I guess brainpower just isn’t worth it

Some diamond dusk days I shill with my father as he stands by the economy ready for a placebo earning

Who’s ruse?

In time the seems sew shut and I see clearly that I am a victim

Not much changes whether there’s a blanket or not

Warmth, courage, disavowal, in any stance, I’m here, and so are the customers

Hope they drown me too soon so their extra credit expires while I lead my own way to the basement

Or the roof

Either direction translates me

And then people might understand where I am

5 thoughts on “

  1. I like all the interesting verbage and imagery. It reminds me of a Picasso painting. It makes sense to the senses and yet oozes and moves and doesn’t make logical sense.

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