Like the pages of a newspaper,
90° and perpendicular
angles fold,
deep creases
form order of content,
such a sound structure.
Oh! The ease with which
one reads them,
then throws the stories
in a smoky hollow
of their mind.
Only to be retrieved so rarely
and yet owing so much in rent.
Let’s cut to the chase:
The uncontrollable
addiction to thinking,
and how it creates
the refraction of body light.
The mind hoax
screaming like a banshee,
“You fell for it again.”
I am in love with
the replay function.
Can’t live with them.
Can’t live with them.
Forgotten syllables
from crowded parties,
silent invitations
to your bed,
rejected nightmares
of floating orbs,
an expansion of the forehead
and of the shrunken ego.
A plural dual fool
I have become:
too many bare edges,
my center uncageable,
and with aura-splitting nausea,
my memory wounds
weep comfrey oil.
Your poetry refuses to die.
The wisps of brain matter,
warp into a fucking vermin trap.
And here’s where a shadow resides,
the gulps of its fingers,
the tingly, wet warmth
of words escaping its mouth
and snaking inward and upward.
I avoid blank pages,
quiet moments,
and empty glasses of liquor.
For when I hear you in those silences,
I abandoned the moment,
so I may sit,
fondle the tendrils
of vapor that slide
through the cracks.
I allow the sickened passages
to widen,
so I may inhale poison gleefully,
leaving behind blanket fire
of heavy want.
I am a snail,
bathing in salt.
Letters from the Playa 