Distractions at the crisis hotline center

I don’t sit right like food on redbull on aleve. People chat in my eyes looking for answers to nervous maps. Their questions come out in the form of cheap soup a hot alphabet falling like hair and splitting to the tune of my open dumb mouth. Could I offer the busty chest of a coo through the drain of my phone? No. Sand made from my breath muffles. Swamps cram light down holes. Meanwhile Matthew McConaughy preaches on a glittering rock over a sea of tennis players, dogs, and surfboards. He’s smoking a cigarette and trying to fit the word cornucopia in somewhere. He squints like William Buckley on a tarmac. Cheekbones wink all by themselves. I am in sideways mirrors lamenting my chin not smoking trying not to have really been born, calcifying in old wombs albescent. A cornucopia of tuxedo pants and shining dead fingers shelling oysters and sticky nickels. Things I wish I could say to make you feel better: think of the smell of boy scalp. Why don’t you buy a sandwich with pesto on it. But what do I know, dizzy from patting myself on the back, having made peace with the silent butt of your tragedy. There are no words.