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Crepe Cake

I am not all the way in me. There is no reason for that, at least not on the surface.

It is more an underwater explosion of baggage that makes me burp heartburning annoyance. Every fourth day takes three steps back to keep me in one place. A continuum of discretions. The chaos is expected. It tastes messy and bland as if I

forgot to add salt and thought. The secret ingredient is a pebble in my shoe. I

somehow don’t have clearance to know what I don’t know. I am often okay with

that but not at this hour. This hour is a four-way intersection of opposites that

itches fast. I lurk around the corner. Lurk or loiter, it is difficult to smell. I mean,

who makes a crepe cake with only whipped cream? I am not having it. I take up

other lanes in Macy’s. As if that is available and afloat. I have to distill into

crystals that might or not cause vertigo. I don’t have to listen but the issue is I

cannot not. My gut demands to be heard. It exposes all my lies in the Sunday

Magazine where people have time. I want to know where they got it. To that end,

I exhibit maladjusted behavior. They were all out of the other kind. Explanations

explain almost nothing. I am going to have to trust or thrust or rust or breast or

vest or vast or guest or guess or gust or must or mist. Only whipped cream, huh?

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