it is a small and fragile i who speaks a string of pearls from a mouth shaped like an o,
one by one
maybe prayers or half-thoughts blown out like soap bubbles from the spaces in my spiderweb nervous system into opalescent candies with
shells of nothing and break like small eggs.
the dust becomes and falls together, lines up like a cocaine intake, it dreams being blown off by the wind, sucked up dreadfully into the mind of God, becoming something maybe something like the chilling consciousness of a clear blue morning, if that's what exploding in His nervous system is like.
but i mean, who am i kidding? there is hardly any breathing when i open my mouth to speak.

it is the small and fragile i who talks about you and we and the next couple of days,
one by one
time leaves as if the ocean on the orange horizon is really licking up the sun into lines until the sky swallows the ocean in a large black mouth. no one wanted this, really,
being up all night wondering about an answer, waiting to come out the other end of the universe into light again, waiting for the damn the baggage to slump out of the black hole and around the metal carousel number 8, imagining that it would instead be all of the questions of the world solved and packaged, coming through to us