26/30

I could die of boredom or holster up my guns.

            ~ Don Draper

my eyes ache lightbulb filaments strangled delicate wires the plunge the slight insect noise I woke and grabbed my pink summer hat during the night woke again saw the hat on my dresser I have a desire to be more human fold my tail wings crooked tooth claws inward walk more upright inhabit this human body love and care for it as for a crippled animal brain on today full no quivers jerks or starts I cut my fingernails short short to practice Beethoven the tips bleed when I type I dreamed of the composer I have his stink on me the idea of breakfast of food sick I dig in the dirt lie under the stone bench untie my chrysalis the pus filled moon rolls around I wore a pink and gray diamond patterned cashmere sweater and gray wool slacks to my father’s funeral I was stoned argued with a fake-toothed preacher after leaving the apple maggot quarantine area I wrote Pickle Farm Road on my hand spectral and ignored in the gutters and margins all the notes now I know now I can run with it my eyes ache I’m going to bake cornbread