Weekdays

Dead-shot and another sunset down the gutter,
how every Floridian’s night begins, antique

muffled voices, all born with unlucky skin. Rub
salt over the shoulders and repeat daily. At the

Magic Beach Motel star keep shooting from
behind Eric’s head, pink yellow white, pink

yellow tings and chain smoke as he’s telling us
about his Year 2012 theory, the earth’s changing

pull, gravity lessening it’s shark trap grip on It’s
infestation. Secretion, more DMT produced by

our already fucked-up brains, “a heightened
sense of awareness” magic mushroom mindsets,

I think of littering all my feathers behind, the
world takes a long drag, the sigh heaves

ocean crashes somewhere. It was Thursday, after
The Psychic Reader’s fifth reading of only

flipping The Blackness when she walked right
into the Atlantic, a pod of sea weed seeds washed

up instead. There’s nothing more depressing than
derelict predictions. I bet Eric’s pissed everyone

isn’t grooving along a psychedelic trip right now.
Or maybe we are. My mouth stay closed longer,

stretching into sands along an island shore,my
eyes are increasingly doing more jabbing and

swimming, learning to walk with the moon
in my yawning mouth. There isn’t any hope,

only a rusted oven in need of some matches,
maybe it’s just a better way of understanding

the macabre pot we’re stewing in, some of us
tenderizing, some of us melting or drowned.

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