My motherboard melts
like a self-immolating monk,
and I feel as if I've lost
both God and Xanax,
The coffee pots brews a strangling.
Soundless, I sit with my organs
arranged in alphabetical order.
Held to the laving light,
r's roll through every etching.
Sadly, I slept through high school Spanish,
but Juanita comes on Thursdays.
Por favor, Juanita.
For Marian's prompt at Real Toads