Tuesday, June 21, 2016


Fluorescent cold fills
these glass aeries
where we perch, enamored
with the business of selling ourselves
piece by piece with the
gold scale at our feet

or just singing a cheerful song.

Happy as larks. Happy
as a coal miner’s daughter.
Happy as a traveling salesman
knocking on your door
without a sale in his pocket
that day.

Our faces are pallid blue
in the harsh white, icy dread that lovingly
runs its fingers down our backs,
tangles us in a damp tourniquet of sheets,
wakes us with tied off veins
pulsing fluorescent
maps of unknown provenance.

The persistent hum and flicker
sliding beneath our eyes,
crawling like soft silkworms
down our ear canals,
filling our skulls with an unbearable
blue cotton candy brilliance
in which we can see not even 
one thing.

Softly then we,
with strangled breath,
sing a newly learned
and blindly cheerful song
of fluorescence
and how happy
it must be to be replaced




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