above my mattress
- it's tye-dye and
enrapturing to trance at
past four ounces.
facedown in the reds and blues
and shoots of purple
like baby jfks
exploding
and popping
in a haze of techni-colour
and woven
spanish blankets
the box, coming
back to it
has become a catch
all
it seems
fried
tortilla chips
from my grandmother
which i really only
eat after
a gratuitous amount
of thc consumption and
a bottle full of blue
shampoo; 1.35 and
cruelty-free
also from
frau olive or more commonly
known as the
patron saint of lost causes;
four
seven ounce caps
which have given me this
nervous tick
of twisting my hair around
my fingers
furiouslyand
a squashed cigarette pack
camel 100s, long
menthol.
sadly empty but
slightly redeemed by
the fine
sprinkling of pipe tobacco
settling on
the box bottom
