Mary Jane

The moon, too, is a conspirator – the bins, traffic
Horns, cats, and windows – all of em, everything. Even my
Breaths – my legs – my mind – WHERE
ARE THEY ALL GOING? WHAT IS THIS PARTY THEY’RE
ALL RUSHING
OFF TO IN SUCH A HURRY? Sssshhh. Someone says sssssshhhhh.
They’re laughing now. Great. My heart falls into a sort of a footless
Flamenco dance. Morse-code for F-U--C-K--E-D.
I wonder how I can crawl away from my brain. It would involve a knife –
A reflection – a motorway – a river. Something fast and wet. Tears blood sweat sewage tide. Silly. Stupid. What the fuck
Kind of a thought is that? The soft, doughy texture of my stomach would swallow
A knife the same way a cappuccino swallows sugar. Shut
Up. I tell myself. You’re a fucking idiot.

And then I notice his mouth. Nobody, really. A question mark for a face. Anyone
Else somebody else. I want to crawl out
Of my brain and into his mouth. I want to defecate on his lip. I want to tickle
His larynx with my toes. I want his jaws around my thigh like a vice clamping
A flailing dandelion (one little blow and KABOOM!)

I’ve been inside my reflection.
I noticed nothing noticed vapid noticed age and nutjob -
All the little workers who come out at night and do a job.
Noticed em takin a nap on the windowsills of my retinas and drooling
Down my face

One more toke to cuckooooo-
One more toke one more toke one more
Lovely gulp
Of crazy.

I crawl out of my reflection
And back into my brain.
I do this more times than I should – I’ve treble
booked myself with self-
Analysis from the same angled skewed
Several dozen times.