There are bats in my belfry, she states too calmly, they told me so.
Sheer wings, cocktail stirrer bones—light as lint—her head’s
In the pantyhose aisle at Target. Not enough nylon to cover
All those spider veins, stretch marks, cottage cheese.
The shock machine ran out of shocks; ice picks are old-timey
But Earth keeps spinning on its wimpy axis
Turtle-backed, or flat as flat can be
Sun/Moon are cutthroat, shit-kicking competitors.
I never had a phantom limb, she pines, though I wish I had something to miss.
There’s onion meat under her nails; she’s been
Peeling again: little globes, big as worlds, with sexy slick exteriors
Shopping malls got nothing but bras with sequins on their straps; drats!
You can dig a hole to China
Or follow the bugs burrowing there
It’s real quiet in the center of the Earth
Your heartbeat echoes in your ears and you can taste the blood.
Mom’d pick it out at rotting, she remembers, or just let it sink on in.
The lipstick on her tooth glints in satisfaction—always Wet N Wild,
Pocketed at Eckerd Drugs: windows usually boarded in hurricane season
Storms with lady-names are the most murderous, worse even than those named after saints.
It’s quiet after lights out
Our circadian rhythms are s’posed to match the sun’s
If you can’t sleep you can’t dream and if you can’t dream you're stuck in this
Scratchy sheet/plastic fork/piss stink clink; more Trazodone, please.