My Mother seeped in, riding on
blue cardboard. She’s always there,
creeping inside of those odd parts
of the mind with defective connections
that make me run wild while walking
slowly, looking like death, and then I hate
all that I see, and I battle myself by hating
my wiring, but I want manners, things that don’t
interfere with the beauty of the world,
knowing that I am fully responsible for all
of the ugliness in the world and it is
everywhere, turning my stomach and
the blue cardboard is wrapping around
me and turning me into disgustingly
used paper towels, and I didn’t invite
my Mother today, but she’s always
here instead of resting in her urn.