wear ye the glass horsehead,
become the priest of the thunderbird matriarch,
let it be the poem again and
your business card be a piece of bark

unemployed, tense, with my fecals
pressing up against the back of my brain–
she wanted to be closer anyway–invaluable.
in the Albuquerque that no longer exists

(this story takes place in the modern magdalenian)

(jay sent a thousand threonate and grace sent clove oil and that’s what i’m talking

about when i say

invaluable, pearla great price, widows mite, whatever you want to label it in whatever scripture you consider holy and

so mote it be

maybe this is wednesday’s post and maybe it’s not)