pique

Such irony, that an ant found its way onto my lustful undeserving thigh. So very deserving of its red injection, an ass that is a syringe, a molecule of poison in some sacrilegious mound of skin – gentle slope with all separate degrees in wooden tongue and printed out, glazed-text papers, and they scatter so delicately like tissue on the tile as he whimpers. His friend is the toilet seat; but today it is folded down, facing the septic water. A tub’s curtain becomes clamped by engorged fingers. A cyan wad betwixt tasteless nubs. Permanent watering but too hot and you think of the more professional fishermen. We are good at our self-games. We take pride in signing over thoughts, sealed in know-all exchange of eyes past chairs and children, and in the navy plastic chairs – we do not even think of the spring bird we can manifest in the fall. Do you take the late September walk? Are you that desperate to leap from the bridge, into yellow narrow cracked rock, stars streaming in wide silver strokes like linear lightning bolts – am I using too much alliteration? Would you prefer me to spell out the syllable and put good emphasis on parts you can only hope to sleep on? I know.
We went to terminal E-3, a Jansport backpack slung over a shoulder – Jones’ Blue Cherry soda pop bottles and Doral matchsticks, hollow floor, hissing middles, wonder-less brand-less escalators and a Ford Escort full of metallic noise and here, they are the last ones off the flight.