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'clear your mind' he said
to no one in particular

'that's...the problem'

he shook his head, he could hear the

trivia

rattling around in there

he put the pen in his mouth
it tasted like lsa, sour and potent but
he must've gotten a weak batch

there weren't any words in this one
he needed something sharper, a quill
something rougher: embossed wood, cork, papyrus
he unplugged everything, reached for the stairwell and started making wishes

when you pitch a coin down a flight of stairs
at some point
it stops clinking
and you can pretend that the stairs go on forever

the stairs are not bottomless however
below, there is a whole world of cars and emotionally unstable women
you can throw yourself in front of

he plead to his gods of the day
Dave, the Fat Sonuvabitch God of Convenience
Joanna, The Stupid Fucked-Up Cunt of Sheer Luck
His High Holiness Val, the Creator of Sexual Envy and Bittersweet Consequence

he had paid the wrong bills and shut himself off from the world
sitting on the top bunk of a bed with no mattress
trying to pull the gloss from magazines like a moth's wings
he rubbed himself gingerly
with laminate
and smell samples
cleant his teeth in newsprint and silly putty

he was a plaster cast, a consumer, an obtuse metaphor
perhaps it would be cheaper to ride the train and own a car,
but not if he utilized them both

he fell back on old habits
his reflexes were game,

slid off the bed
chin to the floor
eyes on a screen
hands carpal tunnel curled

he kissed the ground
and tasted his thumb

buried himself in clothes
like a wayward nautilus

and waited for the clouds to drop