and on the air I taste the
brine of your laughter (but where is my
crown?). I can feel my skin cry out for better
days; some long-gone
error-ridden age as it
feasts on my memory with hungry teeth. Only

godlike garbage grows
here, where among the grey matter, divinity
inches its way in in
jumbled fragments. These images can't be
kept in messy tableaus for
long: entropy stops for no
man (or woman or beast or). Our
neverland is top-full of hymns:

o, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!

Prayer comes in bizarre
questions, and answers drawn out in
raspy breaths. I want to
see each one, smoky and staining the
teeth that asked (like they could ever
understand). I want to feel the
voluptuousness of the unknown, riding each
wave to the sandy shore. I want to never
x-out days again, never wait to hit
yet another
zero.