It’s raining the color blue and I am seaside
filling my pockets with denim and nautili.
My Nordic haunts: a saline mixture of switches, prattle and mutt.
Hot wires warm and, at midnight, begin to spin silk,
the orange spiders that hammock my dreams.
In lucidity I am my father’s Gregorian chant:
a churning rhythm, a booze strung rant.
I wake, knee deep in the muck of linen
I cling, all balled up skin flaking till I’m spread dermis, a milli-thin veneer.
Tonight, I am the rings around the moon.
I am lunacy arching its back to laugh
and wheel barrel all the way home.
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