My neurons choke like dying stars above
a city on fire on the Fourth of July.
A locus swarm aura can’t cut the noose
of insecurity in a decade of drought.
Eating myself alive and every time I’m
reborn again with the grass in spring.
My mind wanders like old porn reels
for the houseless or horny at 4 AM.
A tall tale presence in a dark oak casket
kicking and crying under dinosaur shit.
Breakdown under the space-time grindstone
we season the cosmic’s final cold meal.