the library ticket

The unlubricated machinery of unsound mind refuses to grind. The collected grist of random recollections; those undigested inventories of the recently dead and just departing. It seizes on threads – jitterbugging cousins dolled up in shrouds – the unwashed laundry of unsuspecting honeymooners, and screams out for a drink. It scrapes and jams, fits and starts; a backfiring of all the do\’s and don\’ts, the jigsaw fruits of monkey puzzle trees throwing shadows on the landing in the full bloom of forgetting, of turning out the lights. 60 watt bulbs dimming then imploding. Tried patterns failing. Limpet mouths on wounds already purpling. Bruised.

The only addiction worth hanging on to is that one you left standing in the closet. A jumble of hooks. A tangle of skins. Unreturned books on a library ticket. Unpaid fines.


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Hello. I am still breathing, if you wondered at this latest absence. I needed to step back from the drop awhile, the empty space between the rails, to let the game play out. It has not been pretty for