Spider Veins and Sugar Rage
She lived in a motel
where the mirrors had given up on accuracy some years prior,
and the walls had absorbed enough of her frequency to develop aspiration higher.
She’d organized her pharmaceuticals by emotional need
and labeled them accordingly,
and the ones on the left shelf were
for the reality she found more orderly.
She had a conversation running with a doll head liberated from the torso,
and maintained it provided better counsel than the therapy,
which she found worse, so
she’d stopped attending
and started attending to whatever the doll head had in mind,
for the forty-seventh of its recurring opinions about what she was going to find.
Spider veins and sugar rage–the chemistry of her page.
She ran the whole equation on a frequency that the conventional can’t calculate.
Spider veins and sugar rage
–operating at the edge of what the daylight can tolerate.
At three in the morning she’d take the parking lot
for dancing when the mood permitted,
and issue a sustained operatic complaint to whatever the sky had committed
against her, which was extensive
and documented in the notebook of offense
she kept under the mattress alongside the evidence
for all her major life defense.
The straightjacket she wore as a considered fashion commentary on the general condition,
she’d answer questions about it with the patience of someone explaining position
to people who haven’t thought about it deeply enough to have an actual opinion.
She sold me a jar and I bought it on the general principle
that whatever she’d assembled in it probably had applications practical
and mineral.
Spider veins and sugar rage
–the frequency of an entirely original human,
the kind of person that makes you wonder what’s actually the agreed-upon illumination.