11:22 p.m. - 2009-11-18
bright, happy morning of blood and feces
I flatten myself into the thin buzz of a blue hour. I flatline myself into a sliver of time that begins and ends at 3 am. I look at the women looking for something else. All my poems and stories commit suicide before I can burn them. My brain in winter is a snow globe catching light but never releasing it. I cancel the morning and return dawn to sender.
