Monday, July 2, 2012


Knit by lugging the shreds of heavy things around,
although, still, after a decade, the lizard has no real head.
It's as if its mask has no end, causing it to brutally
doubt its own sentience, consisting of dark coverings on
difficult days.

On good days the sun shines in under the door
but lifting the door through the jamb, sounding
like a nutcracker...

Monster sanitarium adorning us foul.
The doll on the next park bench along only changed
position once, trees exaggerating shadows, yanking
scarlet over fence spikes.

At night our hearts run out. Into the cupboards
that thereby become grotesque and try to feel us up...

Last night some sort of Tesla machine lit its crackles
on my weird gown. Something shut in a bitter pill
the nurse said actually contained bunnies,
although they must've run out like our hearts
instead instilling the pill with their bitter lack.

I learned that certain things are evoked in brains by dunking brains
in acid. The doctor said much of the mind is a labyrinth, and
like all labyrinths, it has memories, a diorama people
stay in, in my case prompting more despair because
it's the wrong place for people to stay in because
they can run out like our hearts and like the bunnies.

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