Sumerian Script
I scarify my soul in the humorless moon of a long night in a clean well lighted place—which is a bullet ridden cafe in Lesotho during a monsoon month of dust and quiet whippoorwills.
I prune leafy trees leafless, hot with fleas, fleecing your sister’s sake.
You said, “I got mine and you’ll be fine.”
I said, “summer is sister’s fate in her shizophrenic haze in the strength of a weakness in her occipital lobe.”
You say my comedy was sublimely written, like it was written in Sumerian script in a Mandarin world.
What I’m Reading:
“Here all is strange.”
— Samuel Beckett / Happy Days
thee istsfor manity reader 