Wednesday, April 18, 2012


a drink cart had fallen from the sky landing right in front of his car
he was sitting in traffic from fright his own hips scissored around the Discman in his lap
a gimp ghost in miniature came to mind the wet shimmering knurls of something wrapped in Latex always took up space in his brain in an emergency, beating his gray matter with its high pressure lean
he always touches himself squarely when something horrific happens it's like pulling a cord, but at the same time like feathers filling an air mattress
he'd miss this forbidden protector should a cop or his own severed arm in an accident ever disable this enjoyable, grossly animatronic waggle
it's a privilege, he has no illusions
fittingly, the Discman was playing Tina Turner's “Steamy Windows”
he sat up and stared at the drink cart; none of the drinks on the cart had fallen over
the oxygen mask he'd put on was too quiet he reached his portable vacuum cleaner under it, to get it going.
his lungs sniffled; other than that, still quiet

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