MASON SCHREVE
I wake up next to my shadow & the idea of fire. I have silence & a banana for breakfast again. I watch a bird fly in the window; this happens a thousand times before noon. I swear really loud. I paint your impossible breasts on the tops of my thighs & try not to masturbate to them. I stare at the ghost of Jesus, from whose head swells four horns & a white pistol. I try on a dozen dresses & a halo. I have a panic attack for lunch. I hide from the lava monster that lives in my chifforobe. I yell at my neighbors for looking at my delicate teeth. I lay in bed & sweat. I put on a second pair of socks. I listen to Why Do Birds Sing? on repeat. I chase my grandmother’s ghost back into the attic. I eat lasagna & another banana for dinner. I make a list of all the names I’ve ever heard. I go outside & climb a telephone pole. I take a bath & watch Jeff Goldblum turn into a lizard. I let my cat bite my face. I lay in bed & sweat again. I touch the wall & close my eyes.
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