There are no answers, I am selfish and drunken and smoking
cigarettes with ghosts behind the clear glass of airport smoking booths. I trade
smooth filters and notice lipstick; I extinguish the ember and wrap the
treasure in a napkin scrawled with black ink. I am twisted and squeezed while
my tubes are replaced with wires and synapses fire shots into the back of my
throat. I plug in, sit down, and shut up, letting my fingers tickle my vocal
chords in their halfhearted attempt to read braille. Fruitless, they scramble
down further to find stomach acid without clarity, scramble to find a fingerhold that can feel something. I read their skewed translations, their feedback
reports, and I feel helpless and heavy with addiction. Scan my chest, pull
apart the hinges and sketch photographs of clues, trace the organs without clarity. I am lucid, I am staring at fluorescent sky, I am flat against the
wall and spinning. I flick the matches in my palm, long since beheaded and
useless, and I remember asphalt in parking lots. The ringing in my ears leaves
a trail of fucking breadcrumbs on the shoulder of every highway, down the wing
of every plane. Cyclical and beautiful, at least I’ll be able to get back somewhere.
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