we have unity
in spades
temps with perms
the pace of a sphinx
—Alan Bernheimer
The rim of your mouth
is crisp to the touch.
Such is the desert on a
spoony afternoon.
I’m swallowed up. Fucked up every-
where with a slight headache,
but angst-ridden mice sometimes find
Xanax-laced cheese.
My quest is neither
endless, nor a fight to the death.
I’m only here for the money. Spirits
generally higher than the weak.
Sobbing her eyes out because
she lost the audition.
I wonder if they serve quesadillas
at Quetzal. One might imagine....
Sedation is such a cautious
killer, isn’t it?
