at times the evenings feel like acid wash decay, personal microcosms with windows sealed shut and the incessant patter of rain like ice swirling around a summer drink tipped over and poured down the sink, grinding in the disposal all the way down.

there are moments where I don’t think i’m real because I’ve entered another ring of myself awesome-blossoming apart like frail old book bindings or the mirror dimension folding over and over and over itself stretching toward a bottom you’ll never reach submarines blub blub blubbing and those fish without pupils that will never know light and, frankly, don’t want it

moments with an air balloon head, more helium than oxygen, and i’m floating away up into the stratosphere endangered like the ozone and alone until firecracker toes incessant aching foot cramp curling like those red blue yellow green plastic fish that shrivel in your palm to tell your fortune: you’re here. you’re dirt. you’re real.

taste it, a waxy honeycomb sweet.