Saturday, December 12, 2015

the likeness of the speaking bitch.
pale as the soft-serve. king of the sun.
lavender epsom and lavender that. do you

like lavender? lavender
is a cure-all; purple, like amethyst, another

cure-all.

not white lithium.
not god-only-knows. not hearing a prayer

that tells me i've got to run. give now
to the american cancer fundraiser
donations of vending machines-
looking into my future, those

cat ladies who tell me everything they've overcome,

one thousand steps past my next mood
prompted by meeting them. i'm tired

of this giving back shit.
suck your cancer sticks and go to hell. flush
down hell, a toilet,

until re-born. the repetitive circus.
there's no place to go. no. there is. i washed

my sheets- now, somewhere between
being the wind and being dead in
a duffle bag. what was that ocean mission,

the one with friendly creatures and
happiness? a dream. one hell of a dream

of one hell of a lucky girl. what does she see

when she goes home? spit on the mirror
covering nothing possible to reflect; a higher
sort of consciousness

meditates itself into not killing itself.
i lay in the den i whisper in. i lay in the sand
under the sun. i see myself as someone else;
i whisper lies in the den i lay in.