Memory

Mem    ory has a whole hole in it, made as it is like fishnets from the corner store. My cornucopia of vanilla flavored dreams are cataloged by neurons who are all drinking Everclear on the job. My menstruation is meant as an affront to the cold. Memory is embroidering “welcome home” on doileys they pass out to the homeless on President’s Day. If my name doesn’t make sense to you, it’s because your inspiration is flowing backwards. Memory is flimsy and frail. I once swallowed scissors, and that was the end of my life’s record. Now, the dark halls of my brain are mostly silent, except for the wind whistling through my eyes.