Slipstream Whiplash

My knees poke up to grab oxygen — unruly blushings — stripped bushings unclad in naked abeyance to nothing.

Clucking tongues. Sunday night is coming for me and I’m muddy flipping foggy. Some kind of voodoo.

The slipstream whiplash.

Dr Scrip Eyewash attends — like he once said: You are broken. You are stuck. You are nothing.

What I’m Reading:

At midnight the moon is the color of the zero that madly refracts like beautiful glass

— Yaxkin Melchy Ramos / “Capybara Hot Springs”