I L o v e d T h a t P a r t A b o u t T h e r e B e i n g B l o o d. One silver ring next to three bored ribbons on the bedside table’s flat promise. Turn off the lamp, resign to never reach for it again, we can hold our belongings with sleep! I mean, can I just put some blood in a bowl by my bed and then sleep soundly? The screws won’t scrape but barely. Try nails—use the back of a gun. Pound, the idea is into our giving it place. I’d call you over when I’m done but they’re announcing the lottery winners. My numbers are somewhere. I’ll look inside the barrel, if you could just turn the other way for a sec.
( C o n t . ) Rationalize the disturbance as having come from the ceiling’s forgery, bringing in bats released on the attic’s hollow stage. Recital this for our long talk afterwards, where I ask how come, why a triple-thought beating? Behind billowing smoke. We all have a somebody, but we can’t all find our no body. Which in this case is what you and I
( C o n t . ) Behind the felt-tip marker is your tongue, spiraling out of control for emphasis, I want to collaborate with you. These ideas you bleed from are insufferable. And I’m interested, if you can’t hear me, it’s because I’m speaking into a microphone plugged in in Cincinnati where neither of us have been an audience member. I’m bent over a sectional, cushions so soft I need help getting out. When your hand, reaching from inside the tollbooth, expects urgency getting through. Pull out a dollar is what I meant, but instead a letter sliced your vertebrae calling form inside a flimsy envelope.
( C o n t . ) Remember the car ride? Where that hand reached behind the driver’s seat and batted at us to stop? We were brother/brother fox/fox mask, side-winding in genetic tracking for future freak-outs, meal worms panicky growing old, until we ripped their putty from intestinal safe captivity. A cop was pulling us over. We looked for a museum to hide, and found a museum. Dedicated to fallen tyrants. The seventieth thru ninetieth floors were okay, but the basement was a coatroom for cadavers, cannibalism, and insane babies of the fifth dimension. We followed with casual conversations about the fourth.
( C o n t . ) Sitting outside our archetype for door-to-door salesmen, I ran into one, a door, and got popcorn fucked, severely. You picked the flies from my mouth’s apple slice, and I likened you dearly to dead father who saw my birth force itself by a small sum of zeros. I was bundled a tumbleweed off the highway pastures en route disgrace, though lucky the wind shifted. Shifts again. Slows to a place where it cannot end, and error-prones. The wound of a kite.