The back of my head is a coin slot.
I sat down on one of those little round stools attached to the back wall
next to a woman with messy black hair and a whole family of suitcases,
she had to shuffle a few closer to her to make room for my legs.
I didn't
think she looked homeless when she asked me for a dollar fifty,
but
couldn't help wondering.
She held open her wallet to expose a twenty,
saying that was all she had
with nothing in-between to ride the bus.
I
only had a five.
Nodding at the baggage, I asked if she was moving;
the girl just gave a smooth grin,
smoke sliding out the corner of her
mouth to form a cloud above her head
like a cartoon speech bubble waiting
to be filled.
Some days I see
in-betweens before mascara but only after awake
I
am that princess who thrusts her clandestine lovers at the end of each night
one by one into a pit of spearing nails and lye
their harpooned bodies
eaten to nothingness.
The fog pushes in
filling the cracks of the city
still I am not
here.
I do not usually lie but
what is true?
My mind strikes blind
punches
and I never can tell if I am completely uncovered
or still
burned hieroglyphics.
There was a house struck by lightening;
all the
nails were driven
electrically out of the walls.
I imagine how the
roof would have sunk
directly down
when each of its faces fell flat in
it's own direction.
We went for a walk the other day to kick leaves in the park and ended up
wading through the Arabian Sea.
I am still looking to find something to float on.
My several minds
can keep myself company as we have many stories.
Shifting ghosts around the walls,
she stuffs dreams behind my eyes
confessional lies.
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