Deep Fried Hopes

Frosting over my hands in that second dip of anticipation, I was clearly the mop, and clearly seeking this exploration of tiptoed havings –deep in the belly of mediocrity’s sanctum, I crawled on in a mess of hopes: wet, soupy, dripping across my rib folds and brow bunches, pooling in my pores and netting across web like—yes--lacing across all orifices, catching my breath in unbelievable strangles and clasping knots. Sticky, sucking, webs—and muck, deep greased, fried layers of munchable parcels that hobble towards my uncapped mouth.