The Grand Lost Harvest

Lo and behold dreaming myself blue and dead inside the belly of my own whale. The intense sweat of a nightmare held up on yield signs, skeletal remains, jailers. That credibility has worn itself down into the timid pink of gums, bursting at the seams with its own carelessness. It was the empty pill bottle on the front stairs that caught my attention. I saw that the cap had been removed and it was empty, laying there the tone of an ugly crayon. Today will be too cheap to stand on. Today the lions hidden behind the chain-link fences in this neighborhood will finally swallow me whole and speak of it later to the newspapers.