pioneertown.

when i’m tired at 6am nothing sticks, like my atoms are about to split and float apart or when a sound clamps the lobe behind my ear like jumper cables so body pricks, keened dog’s nose, so something comes unhinged inside—and it’s not god on the other end but someone with magnetic sway on my cerebellar energy. when i start to burst seams, an overfull blood bag, when i can’t keep moving without spilling impolitely, hazardly in the middle of the grocery store between aisles of temporary solutions. church of the materialists. if i was sure god was dead i’d join the humanists, temples for ego and bioelectric conscience. until then i’ll operate on the full 10% mental grid, sure of nothing but what questions i have. like where can i organ-donate to death and is that legal. i get manic sometimes. my limbs tic and i try to think of reasons i shouldn’t: dance in the parking lot, perform songs as i go about my ostensibly adult business, loudly be what’s in my head at any given moment in public so that my sanity might last long enough to at least get me home before denaturing under hot waves of anxious embarrassment. spine jerked straight under so many eyes unturned. before strands of depression and poor vision and ambiguous-sexuality-enablers fly away like dandelion heads. popped balloons of my flaws fall on the sidewalk. don’t expose me. or, i could just pull up the blankets and make neat a private deathbed of my final synaptic snap.