always go too far, because that’s where you’ll find the truth.
   —albert camus


she is my reality.  the american anonymous—a print 
n.rockwell secretly left hanging on the yellowed wall
of the caffeinated, smoky room gathering masses
warped by their cups, so tired, and clamoring to be free—
bedecked with clouds, moonshine, and saccharine trees.


            who else is going to put up with me?

doctor wrote the word socialafil on a script. 
it’s just that all the other medications barely help.  
they help you more than they help me.

there she is, and a brush.  i’m all brown hair at 
my mirror, with pencils, paints, and sponges every
single morning, cold cream and whiskey over evenings.

and suddenly,

this is where the day ends—i’m desperate, searching 
the craquelure—bubbling, something is happening here—
quietly, quickly, but i don’t know what it is at all.

no one can tell me.

you wake up, you were peaceful, disgustingly so.
you think i’m the mascara, the lipstick, rolled on
thickly for you.  you fucker, it’s because *I* like it. 

then i’ve been known to pick and peel little pieces, and
thinking the cracks in the oils look unpracticed, perfect!—
i’m finished.  i think i get it now, do you?

cook the breakfast, kiss the kids, grab the car—and
you’re still sleeping—and he knows i’m not the perfume,
he knows i’m not his.  

you are not mine.  like a crackling breakfast piping, and 
steaming, a-grabbing at my heart i always save the grease 
in a mason jar thinking on all the fun i can have someday.