The Crypt

Tea and a Christmas tree, I write under the influence of. Let some Saint or Jewish Santa leave a packaged paper beneath the tree for me. Held back makes for hardier hysterical 1:17 mourning giggling. Can’t stop. Claire wants to know if anyone can concisely capture the ethnic conflict in Sri Lanka. The day isn’t getting any younger but it’s brand new. We try to suffocate sobs of laughter so sleeper will keep snoring the room’s rhythm. Don’t wake the number one on the number two brown couch. Michael Marco Polo sings Nietzsche in the next room from noodle to laptop. Everyone’s fingers tap dance faster than mine across their stages of keyboards. Five or fifteen pages, English papers are my all night affair. It might kill me. If I die my body will already be laid out in a crypt. If I die before I wake from this windowless writing, I won’t go unshriven. Here’s my nocturn, my prayer. Above the fireplace, St. Anthony, save my soul.