Is this like art? No, sister. This is self-centeredness, a soap opera.

Time, the incongruous snail. How quickly it moves.

I need new folklore, a new change purse to hold the eyeballs I ****** out of thinness.

Nod to panicked thickness. Nod to talk radio. Box fan in my window ******* in the same air

the dinosaurs breathed, the air jimmy hoffa breathed, the air the rosenbergs breathed.

It feels wet.

This mineral spring smells like jellied summer. All of my hanging plants are dying without fear.

The air above my head is cancerous. I live in a birdhouse, powered by phantom glories.