Waking Up Dead

Lost the letter I in a card game & wake up still a little drunk. The sky looks like the proverbial world of hurt, scarred by contrails that fade slowly, much too slowly. Laundry flaps on the line, & I can make out every word: Red. Black. Blue. The dark wash.

But where is everybody? This old light bulb is fresh out of ideas, even bad ones. This body wants to be thumbed through like someone’s bedtime reading. The kind with covers of broken-down leather, dog-eared pages edged in ineradicable gilt – the sun through closed eyelids.

Jesus. This would be a damn sight easier if I still made sense.