there seems (to be) a mild
dis.connect
between my fingers
and
my brain, all.8 of them,
shoving
food in madly
while i pretend not.to.see.you...
my three hearts
protect themselves
in ways
you could.not decipher (if your blue-blooded life depended on it),
which
it does. i
scuttle wildly
across the holcomb floor,
sweeping ocean.blur.fear. and bio
luminescence
into a range
of predictions,
un.connected (how-ever-so-far) from reality.
