Getting this thing together with an old, tired brain, I found a pocket of consciousness before the last drink. And yesterday’s commute was fine, I will say on the phone, to my poor, small mother, and wake up again in a strange house where the neighbors never seem to sleep and I subsist off of coffee and the Marlboro man’s leash, and a calm, steady 30 picked up just yesterday, so the nicotine and alcohol can flush out my brain – and I’ll be waking up, thinking I feel fucking insane, I can’t reign in the far reaches of my mood-swinging brain.
And Amtrack’s gun just went off when I was waiting for my train – I’d like to stand in the face of the lights and feel the vacuous wind as it sucks up my lungs in its minute detail with the bolts rattling the tracks man, if it should derail it would take the whole world with it, and it would be my loving gun, the one I pressed against my temple, composed of two straight white fingers.
And the yard’s dry in the moonlight and the heater sings back to me as I try my time in the summer to make some important change – I promise to love you back and keep my evil brain in the place where it once was, on the white notebook’s page.
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