ink drinker

or

sneezing

enlighten

-ment

 

i study

infinity in

the

pushpin

library of

my

patchwork

city.

 

father time

sings his

lullaby from

the

hexagonal

storm of the

saturnal

north pole,

broadcasting

a co-opted

reality

through our

radio moon,

 

the cymatic

prison of a

stolen

frequency.

 

i drift

downstairs

to brush

my teeth,

glaringly

aware of

my mortality,

 

return

to catch

myself

with

my

hands

in my

briefs

like

an

angry

spaghetti

western

cowboy

murdering

a

rattlesnake.

 

the

devourer

of worlds

nods in

rhythmic

approval

while i run

in place.

 

water

raptures

my

internal

dialog

silent,

 

the

worlds

stops.

 

starve your

demons.

 

overheard

over dinner

in the din of

the devil’s

diner, one

politician to

another,

the

children

must be

tortured with

immaculate

precision

to achieve

the ideal

balance of

blood and

adrenaline.

 

a red shield

shark in

clown fish

clothing

riding a

wall street

bull through

the china

shop of our

grace.

 

i cry

like a

puppy

being

punched

into an

exhaust

pipe as

unchewed

almond

shards

shred my

asshole,

makes it

look like a

shark

attack in

my toilet

bowl.

 

the wind

licks my

window

like a

hungry

animal

and

plays

folk

songs

over

empty

bottles

on the

sill.

 

midnight

iced

black

coffee

and

comedy

of my

folly, i

enjoy

the

bitter

taste

more

and

less

and

exactly

as

much

as

i should.

 

i consider

the irony of

zombies on

the t.v.,

 

another

eternal

spiral

full with

scratches

screaming

music in a

language

i don’t

speak,

but

somehow

have

memorized.

 

the canned

laughter

resonance

of a

coerced

creator.

 

the

philosopher’s

stone under

my tongue,

 

i sharpen my

fists against

the

knucklebone

whetstone

walls of my

bedroom.

 

sunday

spent

dusting

sacred

symbols,

 

objects of

power in

modest

shrines

about the

house.

 

the space

between

spiritus a

door.

 

the muse an

impossible

hostage.

 

i thumb a

ride home

from work

on the

elephant

in the

room, stop

for an

arrangement

of orchids.

 

there was a

funeral in my

pants and

 

no one came.