Snap, crackle, pop go my synapses in
the morning light. Or maybe that is
just my cereal.
I can’t tell in this fuckstorm of a hangover.
My eyes burn black and
the airy space behind my forehead
radiates. Twisting, melancholy.
Pulsing knives, throbbing toaster coils,
wrap me in soft, dark wool and
toss me overboard.
I will float.
This aching in my fingertips does
not translate well. When I
read the morning paper, I pray the
ink will bleed knowledge through
skin to inner vessels. Soak.
I might remember everything.