ANNOUNCEMENTS OF THE ARID

Messed up the bed of the landscape had to move or walk about and they noticed made their noisy reflections on what still hadn't been digested she had to go in we all had to come in through the dog door and wait one at a time one limb at a time not too close respect faded in definition with the smell of each other's unwashed clothes suppose that fancy of yours of mine washed the tilted idea in this spinning cycle waiting for the bell forgot if we set the timer no one else was involved and it was probably for the worst anyway suppose this a pad of paper every page was used up not too many scribblings on each sheet took it for dead and may she rest on my chest until she wakes up and hits me breaks my glasses what's left of them and I look up a sub-optimal glance into the gleam that masturbates that migraine back into existence up the resurrected shaft of this neck stuck out over the sidewalk until someone comes along and cuts it off and the shrugging face no shoulders you know or perhaps that bottle nowhere to be found had its worries explicated and spread across pubic hair crusted with tears of frustration the kind that cannot possibly tear off the crust of worthless disappointment.

"Towards me."
"Towards you?"
"That's what I said."
"That's what I thought."
"No, that's what I thought."
"Then said."
"Then said. You are a pain in the ass."
"I have something."
"Is it about roofs rooftops?"
"Could have been. I don't remember now. It all just flits across from one lobe to another."
"You actually have some lobes left? They haven't untethered them all?"
"There's still some who have it in their heads to finish tearing into mine."
"A little self-absorbed are we?"
"We? Yes, we if we keep keeping at it."
"Yes, if we keep keeping at it."

Blitz shadows make my hands slow down before the sunset or after it doesn't matter when in the final analysis the mouse stopped flashing its family until they were all gone and he had to rely on the alibis of mechanical pencil leads poured onto the table stained with unfinished loathing charcoal embittered by thumbs rubbing their being no longer in favor of anything.


- Max Stoltenberg