Sunday, January 8, 2012


Weeping can have this suitcase.
The PEZ accident that is the world's
collective weeping. Wild, random side alleys explored
in tragic wake of memory's implosion. Can
have this suitcase. 
Temperature ensues from the
tip of the synapse – follows the nose bleed's
slight incline.

Cry with a dismembered foot in front of your face.
Grunt. Click. Immune response of weak tea, trying
physically to get its sandpaper on, figuratively spills hot hives
over foot. Telepathy with loved one is now so candid -
grunt, click, gugg – the air chafes, grenades into thrumming wax.
Also, you've pissed yourself.

In natty hospital gown,
plainly thyroiding into Steve Buscemi – hybrid sexy.
From puddle of staples to spider dampening.
Going in for the kill. 
When the Tardis eventually stopped working,
interstices between you and the other side fell into decay.
The Velcro was … “episodic in nature.”

Didn't, however, thwart the beautiful perseverance of the rainbow
that vivisected the small bubble rising and falling in
the Walking Dead's mouth-breathing.

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