The world kicks back a cola while bratty dreams kick a deflated ball around my yard. Daily, I feed chickens, Regret, and Damage. My electrocuted soul is singed and sweet and sweats longing. Longing looms like predestined lore over me. I once could do great things. Now my speech is crusted over with child like confusion. I want to remember the information that swam up and stung me in my friend’s pool, but like all gelatinous goodness, the only record of it is on my thighs.
Miniature Moon 