I spent all night last night
running to get the men in white coats
with butterfly nets
because there’s shampoo oozing out of my walls
making my bathroom tiles sticky
and I’m pretty sure I’m crazy.
Also,
don’t forget the graham crackers
or how I bites hot sticks in my free time
or how everyone else ate their marshmallows raw
while I cooked steak over a fire.
And you know, I might one day
learn to play a song on the guitar
instead of barely tuning it
the only problem being I tossed the sheets of guitar chords away
and ignored all my lessons.
Spent my time just
looking
at the tall white bookshelf next to my chair where,
four years ago,
I tore out all the answers to the stories in my
Encyclopedia Brown books,
started a fire with them.
Duct taped my questions up in an attache
shoved them in the corner of my cellar
Finally, meet this guy,
barely even existing in my mind
threw his own sandwich on the ground,
made pens for a living until he was seventy nine,
still hasn’t bought a shower curtain that fits his
god
damn
shower.
He picked all the paint off of my moms cigar box
was left with
wood and brass clasps
not unlike the eyelets in my boots
not unlike how I let too
many people
see the stockpile of salt packets on my desk
the eyes drawn on every round object in my room
and the big reminder on the wall that there’s no jam or butter here
just a lot of scrap paper I’ll never use
and notions of parasols.