She noticed the black mountains
on only a couple of occasions – in the convent –
avoiding typecasting their maker as
the evil cat butt-faced nun, by sitting on them,
covering black cones ... No mystical powers
were actuated except for the cadaver-flavored long silence,
on her integrated Nintendo Geiger counter
rumble-matic radiation was also read.
After the stray pit bull split that gentleman in
the public restroom into two halves – the lower half
folding down, like a battery lid - the computer in there
with them raised her eyebrows. The green smudged Button B
on her bladder put it in “bicycle mode,” in this case
instead of paddling away she peed, pixels, sort of,
their stacking edges letting in dirt from the murder
surrounding the puddle. Plagued by something she saw.
Mystical powers in a ski mask.
Every gizmo appeases the gods where it toilets.