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QU Montage

By Lauren Manna

I can’t think, no-
can’t operate
I’m too tired, too wired;
filled to the collarbones
brittle and rusty
with caffeinated beverages
fancy names funny colors
bottles in contour, boasting wood chips
and motor oil.
Always a power animal,
gilded and charming
perspiring condensation alarming colors
and a metal face like mine.
My stomach is bloating sour;
specious substitute synthetic something
no fat, though, thank God.
They don’t work, not anymore,
not behind the eyes
but there; my spastic muscles
my jaw my knuckles
and underneath the wrists.
How many so far?
too many-
it’s only two-thirty.

I’m crossing my wires
between night and day
social mores
and acting my age.
My circuits are fraying
overheating, that’s all
I’m on rebound, I can reboot
in the summer.

Blearily shake hands
with the man
I’ve been hallucinating;
the one in the black suit
with the broken neck
and no eyelids; he’s in my desk chair.
He’s speaking in tongues above
my sleeping friends tempting me
congratulating me
on earning my wings.