I faked my death with a gun. The bullet,
a stray unidentified blood-object
smarmed by the hangovers of reality.
My vanity basically brandished a faux-
penis head and imagined it to transcend
peaceful sci-fi, a family-friendly outer
space. For outside of Utopia, Crypto-
Seabiscuit was an elaborate hoax.
As in an intolerable dream, with
nocturnal vision embedded in white
eyes, with hidden meanings snuck
into bodily functions to be further
masked by them, the walkie-talkie, after
I pulled it out of the cop's ass, was
crispy, open at the top, revolving ... A
disoriented voice was in its opaque,
plastic, square, walkie-talkie embrace.
Before long, the parking lot around the
NSA evolved into an omniscient cement
pillow that from Earth looked like an
elongated tear in the moon. Scissors
reduced the milky fountain of a pillow
fight to sawed-off. A hole this teethy can
be patched with a crossover between the
menstrual mascara of Catholicism and
the cosmetic rubber of an Iron Curtain.