A glutinous assemblage | peels & cores
festering a patch of healthy dirt.
“The cork in my head | i float.”
i ate 3 courses of cork | became a ship.
i paid my compliments | she winced at me
“my condolences” i saw her point— you do.
None of this is real & none of you.
The difference between me you them
in whatever order you wish | is
i know that i’m not real & that reality
is the only thing going for me.
Where’d he get that draconian muzzle?
The one caked in phlegm | unearthed clean
from under a suede Aztec cushion
shaped like a ziggurat? i tiptoed
the profile of my peccadilloes—all clear.
Scrunched a sponge seeped
in tonic water & baking soda | so the foam
oozed out springy | the cracks rinsed out
like pressure hoses blasting moss.
The countdown began while you slept…