via my email via Always Crashing: Trinketted Hell / Glenn Shaheen

TRINKETTED HELL

I’m fascinated to see Mrs. Bonely Hearts, all done up in her finest.



Long black rectangle from ceiling to floor—it cannot be touched, it cannot be looked upon.



If you glaze into the abyss does the abyss not glaze you? Now you’re all sticky.



We are wrapped too tight in the rags of The Money Question. How much happiness can we reserve over the next, say, ten fiscal years?



Are sin disease and death real? They feel like the only things interesting to me these days.



Avoiding the black space in our living room that erases light, that hums and hums.



Rhombus with no dimension and it doesn’t even solve our problems.



A higher presence and I’m not talking about birds here.



Trying to grab some shuteye amidst the latest blaze, dubbed The Golden Fires by the news.



All my friends are in recovery, I wish I could join them, I wish I had done more drugs.



TSA Agents so friendly in their pat downs as I try to tell a little joke.



Who Made Who from Maximum Overdrive, a movie about killer trucks. Who made me angry, who made me Arab?



The flesh beneath the flesh.



Now the obelisk has the floor. It hums a little mosquito sound. It tells us not to cry.