Kurt Shriner

treatise on madness

Ingrid sold me

the great depression

on a house-wife’s

salary. she’s on

the front porch, leaning

on the back side

of the front bench.

she leans to the side

of her fears, just

long enough to witness

a happier Tuesday,

only to snap back

to feverish normalcy.

monolithic slowness

eases Ingrid’s jeweled

non-sequitur. just

enough to partake

in today’s endorphin-leeching

debauchery, she smells

like a fresh clean fetish.

she teaches tunnel

vision, and always

arrives late, and half

empty. temporarily satisfied,

yet forever hiding from long

dead relatives that duped

her into believing

in the power of fear

spread between two

slices of insecurity.