In my dreams, my teeth commonly crackand fall out of my mouth. When my gumsgive way, there is a soft crumbling, a gritty feelingas I spit pieces of myself onto the sidewalk.
When awake, I remove my teeth more patiently,through the action of cigarettes and coffee. Sitting down,I absently run my tongue against the roof of my mouth,over small burns and dry skin. I can taste my own spit.
In my dreams, I am usually in the process of walking away.I pass people I do not recognize nor do they see me–a walk through Ferlinghetti’s stupor of the mind. My handsare yellow now. They stink. I know this will kill me, this half living.
I go back to my room, blub-lit, anxious. I apply topical creamsto my face and eyes, clean out the daylight and sootbehind my ears. I reluctantly brush my teeth. Eventually,I’ll climb back into bed, tucked in for another pale year.
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Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash