My instincts called me for a drink and then abandoned me.

In my head I was reading a manual on

How to make Texas feel like a water-balloon, but

that's not where I live. Some days,

 you wake up feeling like red meat, the salt burning

down into you. You strip yourself bare of what remains 

of your skin to make it go away and it returns on

a sledge, down your chimney, into your socks. You 

know then- feet failing, spine dissolving, head in your hands

like the seashore you once tried to snatch at and

store for later- that everything leaks. In my head, this isn't it, red meat is
rot so lets switch to green. We can move to another city,freshly 

brewed,all the splashing and its still not Texas.My myths fail to

pull me down or even take me to the 8th floor terrace

again, my myths are starving and 

soon they will let up.My fingers, my nerves,my art,ditto.Some days

you are the last hospital wing, housing too many, the stench

of some poisoning the rest.You're a Saturday smile before 

the wasting away,that's when you break. Some days you

know your next move and then you switch positions, unaware

of still being in the same skin that crawled back on anyway.