you put down the bottle warm as worms in your hand and still breathing chew the spine of the pen like the mad heat might stand still but it won't. it moves. and you'll have to keep spinning the web of the way it was but without the slip out the back door closing as you stumble into another lungjunked morning. they don't know who I am but that's on me. lace your shoes, kick the can down the street where you used to live. lime green livingrooms plastic TV dinner table trays mini vacations in candy colored tupperware bowls. I try to explain my fantasy (which never works) to burn things faces pages in curled reverse. the fog this morning hangs so low it's beading along the soaked cloth of my chest. my palms slide wet down your throat and the window like rain choked regrettably slow. that's what they are afraid of but not me. I've eaten the pen like a psychopath as though the ink were not the blood in your temples coursing furious and raw through your skull.