11.22.17

the inner chamber of my

mind smells like a public toilet

at a county fair

where greasy meats are served on sticks

and the sun is a feckless bastard

with too much time on its hands.

i have been apt to unexpress myself

because the alternative is horrifying.

frankly, i’ve lost touch and i am sprawling

out of orbit, somewhere beyond distinction,

but the inner chamber of my skull remains

hallow and intact and clean and dark and

cool and edgeless, as if scraped out by a spoon.

but the smell remains. understand? the smell.

Written at 1:13 at night, at Home.