How long can you live your life
as a spot-side floor mat?
If your body is a stateside vat
of partially-digested meals–
something else’s skeleton and peels,
how or what, if anything do you feel?

Body is a boil, time is a roil,
MIDI mind is a roiling Judas;
always taking down a shelf.

If five hours feels like forever,
then you are never going to discover yourself,
that when you starve, time stops; whatever.

You made me lazy crêpes and dabbled sugar cubes
onto their latticed landscapes, stepping stones,
this home to this home.

I counted the brown ovals with my tongue
and harassed the batter with my scraping teeth.
Skin– a lacey crêpe, mottled with burn freckles,
stepping stones for unknown lips
and oval and black and not unlike
the animal spots of that old pill-box hat.

Not unlike the sunflower seeds,
spit material from my craving mouth,
tumbling, broken-hearted
like the cloud’s separation from the cached rain.

My heart went to the cleaners,
then I burnt down that Laundromat, again,
blew the ashes to nowhere specific
into the Pacific exclusion.

I am a buttered island
spotted with dead lions.
Pacify me; age spots– these,
the only evidence of a leopard’s existence.


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