pennies from heaven

"I never understood how humans worked until I took one apart."
– graffiti on an abandoned asylum's walls

under a scorched Eye the desert bleeds ruby jewels and kryptonite
don't speak to me of languages with your black sutured mouth
the whales are far more intelligent for their songs –
I can't find my needle-nose pliers in this, my junk drawer;
copper-topped batteries and nickel-plated screws hold this world in hand
but the government recalled all pennies –
I never turned mine in, saving them not for a rainy day;
only locusts fall from the sky now and crickets the size of a child's fist march on the night, their jackboots
thudding on skulls blue-ray lit –
a brand new 15 amp fuse shines its curved spine and flat-tipped lip from within its glass shell:
through this Eye darkly I see:
a bit of red string I once tied around my pinkie –
to remember my name, and what it meant to be human –
but the bubble wand lies broken, next to a Robertson screwdriver and 3 nuts are friendless without their bolts;
maybe tonight I'll dream of moonlight dancing on the ocean, forgetting this diamond necklace noose, a loose string of pearls at my feet, tasting –
what clean water feels like on my soft mammalian flesh –
enduring the faded scar on my forearm: meth-us-e-lah