some theory some dead poet sometimes had, at some point.

Sick and skyping across state lines after
hearing high energy improv comedy of friends,
I plan on bed forever
or at least til morning comes.

How would you feel if the heavy door to your sanctuary was locked
at night when you need it most?
When what's in the world isn't good enough. I have keys
for so many things:
like braided bracelets, yellow change of sweet gum trees
but not a rusty tooth to bite into the hinges of these
hollow holes.

I shuffle music like notecards between my tactile senses. This is crunchy, this is spreadable but globby, this would make the best marinade. put that on your chicken, enjoy with a crisp white wine.

this is the part where you open the door
i am not afraid to go, i am not afraid to know
God's sitting in the living room
well, they'll be here to take him soon.
Oh well oh well oh weh eh ehhhl.