• What's that..little birds caught in telephone wires

    chirping scissors cut my conversation and leave the receiver hanging limp. It melts in my hand, drips into an indifferent black puddle on the carpet

    inside, the windows are made of a milk that sandies my throat
    shuddering...must open the door to avoid suffocation, stepping

    outside the droplets of fog solidify on stinging red cheeks.
    looks like a devoured city, incased inside a ghost's stomach
    It heaves, belches foghorns, sweaty clouds coughed from bronchital chimney throats

    On this heavy day, humble abodes became chain smokers with cancered organs migrating blindly to the invisible supermarket in the ghost's liver.


    What's that..distant chirps of birds so close they're caught in my hair like the telephone wire


    I can hear you, friend, on the line trying to connect through my ears. You have reached

    Brain, my call-center that's out-to-lunch for the day, will tell you to please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can