written on warm dishcloths,
and paper placemats
with endless drawings
of terminally ill rattles;
the false premises of marijuana
climbing my old suffocations.
Sometimes they twinkle
because of the deceptive reflection
and turbulence of the wild,
the useless surrender of my desire.
The wind of my anguish
chases after you with a great spell,
a recipe for all your epochs,
a total, fleeting countryside,
a cry from thirsty mouths full of supplications.
My serenity is a sad, lonely Fairy Tale,
petrified guano dispersed in the air,
columns of dead bats burning, skin grafts
from an obese man inhaling blood.
I'm going to sew you a devotional scapular
with the words, COME BACK!