My Regrets to Leary:
Listen, the streets are quiet and
the news anchor lies about his whereabouts.
He is the naked enemy
beside me who is a pathological liar,
and tells me my name is
first lady and that I am a spider.
of your delusions and the daisies
behind your ears.
No one believes in flowers in guns,
or kool aid optimism.
It is now a numbing vein,
a forgetting, a
tuning out, a
looking away, listless.
When the lights come on,
into a dirty hole like my
other vacant eye socket friends.
When the lights go off,
I spin a regal blanket for us and stroke the
mustache of my enemy while he sleeps.