Holding in a Piss. Talking a lot of Crap.


Lamenting for curved luminescence,
Separating barcode
From the edge of the paper.

A splotch of arid skin
Bounces from the cashier’s ring finger
Situates near the corner of her lip,
Shapes words into flakes
That part off the scab
Sprinkle onto the clavicles’ contour
Of flesh,
Bent to form a bowl.

(but I eat
cereal from a leaking cup,
built by clasping fingers)

I question why the scent of change
Haunts my nostril
As I peel away an eyelash.
Stuck to the shining, perspiring, cavity.
I surmise Dead Presidents wanted to be remembered,
But I drown quarters
For other wishes.

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