This ain’t no poem,
and now I feel
Mountains of cookies,
inedible, floating just at the bottom
of consciousness. I’m mad, but it
shouldn’t hurt you, and your mouth
might be agape, you finding I function
at times (surely not now).
I’m up and
down. You know that, so why waste
my ink when I’m a rag worse than the
paper I write on.
The wind is dry and
soft, marinating my hair, readying
me for fits when someone speaks
truth. All that was ever good, that
will ever be good (about me) melts
in the fondue pot that the crazy
burglar holds, ready to smash
my face good.
I share with you
about my fears so that I might
cut them in half, but instead,
they swallow me whole.