Wet one, this year.
Fully saturated,
everywhere you step
squishes and squelches.

The sun still sleeps,
all tuckered out
and tucked in
behind grey stormy blankets.

I don't own a rain jacket.

Guess I'm gonna be a prune again.

Tentatively,
like trying to write on saran wrap
with a freshly sharpened pencil,
that's how she walks.

Grace, delicacy embodied
within a writhing crown
of tangled red silk.

A dancing and singing bird
on a brittle autumn leaf,
no fear of falling because
she's got those wings.

Slice of nothing
empty plate
piles of vacancy
cover the horizon
population zero
still cities
quiet interstates
heaping helpings
devoid of substance
fistful of fingers
garbled signals
snow and static
white noise
no noise at all

Gimme gimme
snow and stasis
thought not
vacuum head
intellectual parasites starve to death
digging their teeth deeper into my scalp
desperate for a taste of ******* something.

Shallow waters
jean pools
denim sheets
flannel curtains
clouded windows
hazy eyes
breadth of sun
shining light upon
nothing.

Ice cream for breakfast
now that Mom's dead.
All my pants are napkins
now that Mom's dead.
Stay up as late as I want
now that Mom's dead.

Nah, can't do it.
She's gone on the outside,
but I can still hear the echos of her voice
on the inside.

The louder she gets
the more I know
I'm ******* up.

My guilt is a reminder
of what's a good or bad decision.

My guilt is my mother
slapping the back of my head
from the grave.

My sense of self worth,
my sense of what's right and wrong?
That's my mother saying she loves me
from the great beyond.