It’s not ok to be sick in public but here I am.
Much energy is wasted in speculating about whether one is wearing the pants or caught in the act of panting. The daemon of violins sometimes presents itself in the organ of the throat. Hoarse is the instrument of residual lust leftover from the last round of bingo.
To set oneself free or to fetishize one’s shackles is the operatic comedy. Sing your name. Sing the name. Create the guru out of cement and set it free to walk the earth unencumbered by a name.
Today I am ill and working. I float across the table in the treatment room. I haunt the bodies that lie there just enough that I revive them. They don’t appreciate my rasp. My voice evaporates water and hot jello amasses in my lungs. My ego warped in mucus, thank you.
I’ve been let go into the street. My love collects me. His voice is pollen to my bee.
I invite him with me to drink hot orange juice.
I express my appreciation and leave for home.
Dead zones in transit. The train can stop in one of these pockets of nothingness and no one on the outside could hear you. Why am I still in the city? I miss stars.
Night. How can I drink more fluids?
I settle into a groove and I’m helpless and horny. Surrounded at once by syrup and blankets during the first warm days of the season.
Relief is written in the sky. Gaze upward. Buzzz.
Who is that person? Someone I once knew had offered his hermit shell to a creature which now resides in my home. It plays the guitar and speaks Chinese in a strange accent. It won’t tell me what it wants but will freak out when it’s not happening.