A Cure Fit For a King, excerpt. The Whole Forms a Syndrome. Man is a Limited Creature.

The meth heads across the street were hammering at 4 AM. And I envied their stamina. Hammering spikes into their railroad ribs,. To guide the stowaway mouths of little dungeon girls. I saw a lawnmower get exchanged for drugs. I saw a window get pushed through like a wet cardboard box. I saw a man eating phantom berries from a forgotten handrail -. His hair bent and matted from its own weight. Overgrowth is a sign of enlightenment; negligence of worldliness.

It was in your nature to forget me. All I can do is admire its figure. You haunt and roam dimensions and nativities. You finally stop to lie down in the straw.

Most of the houses on the street are abandoned,. A skunk sitting cop-like and sprawled on a porch bench. A gray fox in a baby carriage. Until I grew lop-eared and anxious.

I forgot my means for motion. I felt all wet and loop-holed like the ache of some forgotten cheese. But then my ends found me, clamped between. The door and doorframe of some purgatorial delicatessen. At some shitty bar while playing pool, a local in a silk-printed Hulk shirt told me to never give up my dreams. Can you be so depressed that you change into a monster? Not green, but blue.

Your hand on the nape of my neck. I was puking everywhere that night. Luckily, water is the most clear-cut shot at redemption. I promised to fall like an ocean into whatever arms presented themselves. I want to be a cold-blooded lifer walking the warm-blooded beaches. Sympathizing with the physics of a procession,.

Roaming back to my bearings,. Working 17 hours a week at Staples. How many times have I thought about. Stapling myself to the employee announcement board. And waving at the boss when he walks by to refill his coffee? And he never notices. I let the fantasies of the mundane take hold. I have no idea what I actually do everyday. I kept a daily journal but realized it was full of lies. I tried to smear the pages, but realized it was a bologna sandwich.

Gummed stuck in the meated huff I thought of fishing trips,. That time I saw Grandpa tear his webbing between hand and thumb clean out. Haste was thick and rising. The bass lay in the boat, gaping. I took the hook out.

I caught myself drifting again, metallic pluck of iron sent me hauling. My dreams, allowances, or dismembered muse babe.

I awake from a carousel feverdream. Has kept me pressed against the seat. Between the laughter is a guardrail.