Personal Hygiene

What deft work fingers make

in such small circles,

twisting at the

cloud puffs of my mind,

pulling at globs of brain clot,

stuck deep where the

noises of the day

still scratch and tick

like a crackling music box.

My head, a vessel,

a rickety barnacled tug that

chugged through the upper-reaches

of over-grown shopping malls,

where women carried neon frowns;

children tugged at the

shackles of coin operated leviathans.

Becalmed in pungent business districts,

down punch-card streets

where men with typewriter mouths

spewed data-orgasms.

I hoved home through swampy suburbs,

filled with the howls of beige beasts

in alligator-stained polo shirts.

Along the way, caught

on so many snags,

mired in sludge and

disused junk-mail hedges,

my mind cluttered and

dragged almost to the bottom.

Now such surgeon fingers ply off the

world’s clinging clank of

buckled soda can epiphanies

until so much silence,

like a goblet of wine,

full and sweet, flows down,

cleanses the throat of my mind.


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