An excerpt from the "I Can Still Smile Like Errol Flynn" publication, this is a piece about...
When morning broke it shattered,
not of its own volition.
The evening before, I set it up,
stacking pieces precariously,
balancing neurons on memories,
ganglia tenuously holding on,
soaked in dank fissures of brain.
When morning broke it shattered,
acute shards of regret piercing
my consciousness, hacking at hope
like a vicious Samurai slicing
away my best yens,
like a Sumo sittin on gray
matter that can't breathe.
When morning broke,
so did I.
In the wind, my nose blows...