—it’s day 06
,and i’m pulling nylon strings from my glass heart,strung across shackled ceiling-fan memory bedsheets forget what is there forget for there is nothing besides god eating away the stomach acid from undigested cold cerealuntil my head whispers goodnight i hear good mornings made of plastic spoons.
,and the branches outside my bedroom window fringe,the neon ashen clouds creep so credulously no one flinches,so credulously, all holy chants silent inside these stucco walls,so the chorus of the wind chimes carries through once more.
,and constructing blueprints for dystopias has never been so tedious,how yet—today the etch marks of trees and petals fester, not bloom,how silence evicts the soul from the body, today, god, just todaydon’t lay me down with my ancestors.
,and who ever thought the sound of air sweeping the grass, the sound of dried tumbleweeds and radio towers and nature’s arteries could be so violent; i was always taught that if god sticks sap on rough bark i’d churn it into coffee grind; perhaps it’s a selfish notion.
,and yet by the end of this i’m still plucking feathers from my pillows, dandruff from my dried scalp until a pile gathers on my rug and the radioactive wind screams the crud away so we can only fill empty moments of timewith contortion and existential dread.
,but perhaps there is beauty in lost hope,some sort of morbid mobile spun once too quickly on the altar of venus,perhaps there are pixies in good mournings and graphite palms,perhaps we can one day sketch utopias and feel comfortablewith our own voices, i’d like to believe that is so.