A cute little blonde from Tacoma screams my name while having drunken sex with a sailor who wouldn’t take off his cap. White light floods the engine room. What did they think would happen? Search parties themselves have gotten lost and with only a sleeve of stale Saltines in the breadbox. The anxious expression on her face says, If anyone finds a key to a Volkswagen, please let me know.
She wore a brand of makeup called Urban Decay. The crescent moon was very close. In one of the collapsing cardboard boxes under the table, she discovered a book of 425 poems about the death of the poet’s child. Our hearts were decked in flags and banners. Pickpockets crowded around. She said she’d slit my eyelid to help me see more.
St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
Street fairs churned with drifters and polio. Something bundled like a baby was buried under the rose bush. The assassin missed at point-blank range, distracted by the pair of dancing mice inside his head. Paper fell out of the sky. From then on, the Valentine heart couldn’t beat on its own, but only stones the size of pigeon’s eggs had permission to stay.
Intricate Projections of Prescient Dreams
I became aware of music, something classical. The gods must’ve worked a double shift. Everyone went around giving things new names. There were no winners, only opponents. The landscape smelled as if it had just been painted. We were crawling on our bellies for the shelter of the pine trees. An old farmer came out to the field and poked me in the side with his shoe. I looked up, shielding my eyes with my hand. Table or booth? the hostess asked.