The cicadas play audile tag with their cellophane wings, up in the navy silhouette clouds. I’m back in shadow, melding back with the harsh smoke and new painted blown glass. Dewey feet dripping through tiny treetops, mini forest. Not hot, just a steamed bathroom, where you write words in the mirror.
Back inside its headphones and bit torrents. Sipping sour green tea. Try to write something, beer is a better muse. I couldn’t scribble a haiku right now, syllables are too advanced. I’m at like a song a word.
The pager, my little spy from work in cracking black plastic, like kitschy 80s gadgets. An eyeball, nay a chain, a banshee collar. It’s been sleeping this week, by the grace of god.
Instead I’ll burn minutes with mp4s, drinking a simulacrum through bloodshot irises.
So this is a wednesday night…