Somehow even coffee-induced head fatigue is currency. My contraband isn’t ketamine or thunder
or pomegranates with garnets as arils. Apparently, it’s my ribs for existing with the surrounding
indigo plumes. I write to you in search of refuge. Let me hide in your naval, under your sweater,
where I might lopside and kill the lilies you pass, melt the wandering with salt. Courtney, I am
afraid. The sweet paranoia, the sweet fucking paranoia is hearing poltergeist static, seeing a
shadow, with the head of a serpent, strangle its way into nightmares where Frida’s monkey is a
bouquet of shattered limbs. Courtney, help me murder these debt collectors. If our dead bodies
fall into currency, tomorrow, I hope the sagebrushes whisper our names.