Work Diary & Post-Mortem
a sensorial Saturday morning poem
If the bees in my head were buzzsaws in the air, cloudy and sharp. Coffee grounds stuck to the brick like lichen on a tree, or fallen iron shavings from a memory I can't quite shake. Stuck to my pantleg; stuck in the cloud above me. Thoughts in deep velveteen shades carved out of an acidic, stimulating haze burn the inside of my nose. Stuck in my lungs; stuck to my bones. A grinding, rattling from the inside, violently vibrating maze that feels strangely like home.