In the unloaded logarithm of elastic-ballast, I’m in the stupid-room, panting, with a box of things some would name donuts. Alone or in small groups, the cargo, the woodpile hissed axed out of cedars, is schlepped dilute as a rustle. I bemoan my lot in the colored oval which I’m painted into, disfigured by friendly madrigals. I gnash my teeth, lightly, but visibly. I tear my shirt, but it’s a western shirt, so it comes right off, like the words I speak, like every stain I’ve made, especially the spilled coffee ones, which caused this whole misery to begin with.
Inside the cage, I get someone else to strap my own father into a gingerbread-gurney. He tells me, “If anything goes wrong, you must kill me.” I’m not surprised, even though he waits to see it.
Soon enough, the cage is solid. So go tell the shaman we’re ready, until I become the one thing that…uhhh…The chairs are covered in snails.
There’s no way. They’re carving up wood, smashing glass. Rumor has it you possess certain skills I require: I need a soul extracted; it won’t bring back the sun. You got a problem. At least eight people survived by performing surgery on themselves.
Everybody thought it was me. It’s you…you’re the reason my life sucks.
Get over it. Provenance is better left unimagined, an accordion crumbling into letterpressed feta-ravines graveled with floozy-emergencies.
I won’t be able to protect anyone from the beast, or me & LOL. You’ve never had the pleasure, but you wanted it. I drive past a rendering plant on my way to work. It is the factory from some horror-flick-inspired nightmare: dead cows go in one end and crude protein product comes out the other. There is a perpetual miasma of rancid fat cooking that surrounds it, and on cool mornings it coalesces alone or in small groups into a visible fog.