singed

fog…

grew up as a concerto scorpion
crested maverick as a passport to wreckage
traveled in ventriloquist’s boxes
and plexiglass jewelry cases

technically i’m a survivor
but my interiority is singed
i’m moldy and need to be arrested
my inner voice lisps in triplicate

my concertos now include perforations
decode this if you dare
bolt-holes are forthcoming
if you will

i can’t get to sleep
in this hole

What I’m Reading:

I liked my little hole,
Its window facing a brick wall.

— Charles Simic / “Hotel Insomnia”