Beneath my forehead creaks a half-opened cigar box,
labeled appropriately for villagers and lost adventurers,
tunneled into by flamboyant parasitical darkness.
Tossed among grainy lives of unfulfilled laborers I
study generations inspired by years of kitchen grime,
I deliberate over demonstrations of totemic puppetry.
Scrambling for guidance I find, instead, eyelids creased into
stereophonic slipstreams, passages unreformed by penitent sinners,
distortions of memory intruded upon by strange beeps and vibrations.
