by Steven J. Serafiani

I tore through dumpster
street by street- brisk
strokes. The tortoise blue
blur heaved nothing

at me. Entered teahouse
triage and took a
barstool bath as
chamomile pressed all

it had. Mexico City
just sits there man-
a fuck you to caballero
clown grit, what

a strop. She, being my
sister, prattled on too
much about prattling on
too much or if the nod

I gave. Chinoise oolong
ceiling looked like self
putty; hazel knives lingered
for a spell in salt. Why

am I an asshole?

[ ]

Chin wobbled as I go
bald; tortoise.