My soul fell out and fell almost straight down the stairs, then he half-smiled and I found a baby scorpion in his eye. The encounter with my house is lovely today because I found, also, a smile under the chair in the sunroom and my bruises disappeared after which I fainted because I was glad to be no longer pulverized like a saint. In fact his eyes watched me until I turned a higher temperature and vanished into the wall and onto the slightest glimmer.
The magic 8 ball gave an answer and I want you to reply that the encounter was not one of putting two and two together. If I were a smile I would get bitten into. It terrifies me that the world contains the sentence: No one here has to see me.
I am a hash mark full of pocket holes, taken from the journal of a hunchbacked man on his way to the noose. The ox is too big and the cardboard box nary hammered. In the bicycling wilderness, a fort depicts big waistbands the glory birds emerge from. And what would emerge is a horrifying template full of systems and formulas, beak-marks and lion tongues, gasping in the rain for the rain you loved. I can’t understand the limits under-planking the shavings of water, ships burning on the straight while a lone man plays cowbell with a copper baton. Who went limping past to plea for a suicide near the yellow tree with a big blue eye painted on it? I want your teeth to bite a different kind of me until it compliments the blood. Do you understand how to turn yourself into an infinite reflection whose head always obscures the view? The messy histories of a bird running over puddles. The messy histories of a salt factory. Hounds, hounds, hounds on the suffering banks – what of them? We barge in so delicately in slippers made of down, made of holy petals, made of milk.