Chalked Hands

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.


The End

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