I've been awake for hours, dreaming of a chilling swing. the songs in my head carry me like waves as I bounce like a balloon off corners and windmills in the desert. a pile of sand on the tiled floors is now shaped like a crescent moon; i have found my religion, or should i say it lost me? Forget about the tapestry of monolithic trinkets and empty soda cans strewn in organized chaos; this owl knows all about voodoo, and her chicken bones don't belong..

so, run, run, my little petri dish. Dinner is set at eight and what a shame it'd be to arrive too late; they're serving needles and grapes.


yeah, so i'm done with interaction,
that bear-clawed callous subtraction
inspiring a thousand unpublished retractions,
sporting a red teeth and blue gum reaction
to grin balloon lungs and vortex finger tips into contraction
while a hundred kitchen cleaver knives lay poised to mince this abstraction.

shall i sing you a song i found in the ice?