23

THERE'S LSD IN THE CAKE

They do their time in a broken down body shop.
She's the same woman who ends up drinking wine in the shower at your party.
He's the one who wakes up in the neighbor's yard sometimes naked.
Matrimony in a whiskey bottle on a street corner guitar player's hat.
Heart and soul dancing disco queens yawn in the midday traffic.
She sees three-ring circus rotating his eyes rolled back.
He only remembers to turn off the water while brushing his teeth.
The boy draws song lyrics in the fog of the bathroom mirror.
She must be on drugs because she can hear the words come to life in her ears.
A pattern instinct of any junky who likes to live.
Blow your mind to a skipping record in a dead man's head.
That's what they all do.

At night she walks again.
The midnight sun beating down on the skin cells that dance as they die.
The concrete wearing the rubber of her souls.
He sleeps so he can dream.
Dream of old men in suits smoking pipes in armchairs drinking out of highballs.
Dream of statues of people who had some significance in some past life.
Dream of black holes in solar panels absorbing anti-energy for fuel efficient whores.
He'll never be understood in this plastic sphere of a world.
She'll never be understood in her glass cased museum of a life.
Together they'll run in the road.

by Caleb Lewis

I once through a watermelon
into the bathtub with me as
a suicide attempt. I have
strange phenomenon of seeing
the number 311 everywhere.
And I may have epilepsy