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.
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