It's true, i'll make a mess of things
that's my specialty
baking arsenic into apple pies
things are messy and i get distant
things are broken parts are missing from both ends
the clock on the wall is ticking the seconds
until i can get straightened out
until i can get clean and dry and soft and still
any day now i'll clear the air
absolve
my history in the book stacks
thick with dust
I'm not expecting to make sense of this
because my senses mix and blend the colors muddy
maybe i've only learned how to stain the surfaces i touch
but i know i've learned to love
i'm full of it
sometimes swollen shut like a black eye i failed to ice
i'm my own silly victim of clumsy trying
trying to catch clouds of thought in jars
to spill out on the page
trying to make my dark places
feel nice
with flimsy blinking strings of light
and temporary tattoos
and by crowding comfort
into bottles of booze
the train lurches on through the night and into early morning
eventually i'll get off
when i find out how and where to stop
or,
stop trying to find out
things are messy and i get distant
things are broken parts are missing
from both ends
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