Sleep passing for years. Diets of mustard and cheese sustain a poor body, in bad shape. Call a drowner to drown it out. Perch sounds sick. And like the many things I see a golf cart in the yard. Crepes. I don’t know how to make them. I lost all cooking rights in the kitchen through insomnious ventures, moments along with the catsup that I poured over the grilled popcorn. I think I lost.
Tin all around me drapes a likeness so refined, I won’t look. So think. Buddy system failed, I am alone. Seven juices in a blender to pour down my throat sting the tissues so tender in my mouth. Sores blistering and pussing green. Maybe a good soak in hot water would cure those hurts enlarging. A cake of soap to wash with. Expensive items are not squandered when they’re available. Purses stolen were mine to gain, use as I willed. For they became mine. Capes of good horn around which I travelled. Familiar scenes made me vomit.
Not much there. An antique car drenched in new shiny paint sits in a driveway never used. Someday I’ll wreck it.
Plastic stallions ride through the streets.
RIVER BED 19
copyright © 2017 d.jaffe - all rights reserved