a trail of ants leads out of my head as i smoke a cigarette out of a wound in my knee in my swiss cheese house. bullets rip through my rib cage like a laughing river of molten lead as my soul cries on the hood of my car.
prickly warm moisture oozes out of my fingers
and my head is a blinding flash of light
as i descend into your dreams and your medicine chest
in the dead of night as all the ants in your ant farm
snore loud enough to wake the local precinct.
i hear a mole mumbling that has half tunneled to China,
i hear a bird panicking at 10,000 feet,
as fish swim aggressively through my arteries
and bubbles pop in my brain.
“enough for now”, the blind poet said,
“for tomorrow all the fools will die,
and i need to pack a lunch.”
Loof Lirpa 