I grow a blister from friction on my finger.
When I pop it, at first it’s clear fluid.
Then a tiny eyeball comes worming out.
I approach two women outside the methadone clinic.
One is crying while the other tries to talk her out of suicide.
A bird is on a branch above them. “That’s a Western scrub-jay,” I say.
Malevolent as a toothache, I implore the volcano: do
your thing. A zipper breaks, I hit my knees.
The red sky cracks a baby’s skull. Hungry
as if nothing could feed me. But then
I devour a bushel of clichés! Wash them down
with a tall glass of platitudes. Crawling through
ductwork, Mission Impractical. I hear you down
in your den plotting the downfall of USAmerica.
“HQ, this is Agent Ambien. Dead end, no go.”
If it is to burn, I want to let it. Wrapped
in tentacles—chlorophyll stink—find your safe place.
In my dreams I am naked in church.