I am speaking in tongues through a hangover that I caught from falling pollen. I am hoping that my car will start. The cargo of my thoughts are like flood water. Still, I am a record keeper who cannot speak.

I am constantly living (the) phantasm of Brutus—(the) in-between, the dream. The point between inaction and action. The gaseous exchange pre-explosion. I have no fire extinguisher in my back seat.

If time is a construct, something we invented like calisthenics, sewing machines, or alternators; then I am in short circuits, in wires crossed, in tension slowly amplified.

Hello (help) I am calling you from a tin can after eating the chili in the streets. How sad that you carry on like a homeless drunk in diapers of 18 months, pouring sand into mailboxes.

Palms up, this is going to raise your heart rate. Can you feel it? One two, three drive!

There is a patch of inedible oil growing on our street like an ulcer. It bleeds rainbows down (the) sewage grates.

Tonight I will take an entire cheesecake to bed with me. I will pull the splinters from my butt cheeks, or let my body repair etc, furthermore, thus. I will sand the callous off my hands. I will peel every dandelion from its root, and every cutie from its case.

In the milkshake quasar, I am now drinking radiation daily. I am calling out to everyone whose ears have fallen off.
I am stuck in the sludge of the moment; the greasy mercury that the buddhists say—is enough. I am as patient as a tree,
as poetic as a thumbtack.

This is the second time I have written in the company of your anger. It feels like drinking someone else’s backwash. I am a dog, in a kennel, on a farm that has no name. I am waiting for my heart to explode.