At 2 pm, it’s the morning finally. The sort of morning I keep under my bed. Keep them pressed between mattresses like a prince from a ridiculous story might keep sadistic instruments of vegetable torture. Pushed awake too soon. Executive decision said Now You Who Sleep Awake. Don’t be like this, I pled, but no. The correctional facility wasn’t answering. this call has been disconnected To sleep at eight and up at two. Set in pliable stone.
Difficult night, I could say. Insistent guests on-line, on the phone, at my door. Everyone leaving finally at four. I might have had a chance to sleep, but I threw off the groggy shawl to don a silver mantle of piqued interest. Talk to me of drugs, this drug, she’s your cocaine. To everyone else, this door is shut and locked. Meltingly asking for admittance will not suffice. The key’s been swallowed. Break it down and die boys. To lay your hands upon me once upon a time is to expect regret sooner than I can scratch you. The people watching from the street would never get pictures.
Someone’s moving a little lower than angels allow. They’re whispering to me, but my hands are empty. I feel there’s a skin to this, a grace.
It’s Jason’s birthday today. The fellow who’s reading through this sorry mess from entry one. I’m going to bring him something tasty and finally meet him.
Today’s list: anti-kid pills, ferret food, one ticket to TV on the Radio.