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Sunday, April 29, 2018


I could die of boredom or holster up my guns.
            ~ Don Draper

my eyes ache lightbulb filaments strangle delicate wires the plunge the slight insect noise I woke and grabbed my pink summer hat during the night woke again saw the hat on my dresser I have a desire to be more human fold my tail wings crooked tooth claws inward walk more upright inhabit this human body love and care for it as for a crippled animal brain on today full no quivers jerks or starts I cut my fingernails short short to practice Beethoven the tips bleed when I type I dreamed of the composer I have his stink on me the idea of breakfast of food sick I dig in the dirt lie under the stone bench untie my chrysalis the pus filled moon rolls around I wore a pink and gray diamond patterned cashmere sweater and gray wool slacks to my father’s funeral I was stoned argued with a fake-toothed preacher after leaving the apple maggot quarantine area I wrote Pickle Farm Road on my hand spectral and ignored in the gutters and margins all the notes now I know now I can run with it my eyes ache I’m going to bake cornbread

1 comment:

Ms. Moon said...

I walked down a little road the other day and its name was Ink Berry road.
I thought intensely of you.