Guts: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

replaced with broken glass and some type of rabid rodent
frothing and starved, gnawing, tragic growth
why did I try to fix all these problems
a veil to shield eyes from the view, running
the back of the brain smoldering
rusted plastic toys, piercing your foot in the lawn
dammit not again
look deeper internal, external and back again
rewind the truth all red warm and wet
I can’t get the stains off my hands
the stains of necks snapped in ID propelled
unconscious desire fueled nightmares
during waking hours
pianos underwater drowning microphone wet dream
the birds outside asleep snoring
all these maybes
maybe’s like unfound talent
or maybe’s like uncertainty
a liability, an ability to lie
digital thuds bass movement of atmosphere
creates friction
Fuck it I’m going where my stuff is…

(Monday, September 25, 2006)