Freshly painted nails scrape against the chalkboard,
the smell of cleaning agents burns my eyes with sparks
with colored flames, mixes of blood and translucent skin.
Scratch a sermon on the board and maybe I’ll listen to it,
and pour me a glass of low grade poison and mail me
a case of sharpies to murder the mirrors in my house
so I don’t have to look at my swollen crystal ball eyes.
I don’t want to travel in time anymore. I want to pull
down the world map over the chalkboard and find
the happiest place on earth, maybe with a sea turtle
in the ocean or a baby lion on the savanna playing
with her brother. There’s a math equation on the board
and I can’t solve it without a calculator and there’s
no equation for measuring the distribution of bliss.