The bridge to the Bronx is suede when in the
depressed position. Gazing across the grain is slow.
Inky observer, trying to stay awake, sight's braids
microwaving to a crawl. An old lady robbed you.
Eventually, her decency hogged the lure and spilled
something from her. It was in compensation, that she took out
a jar and invited you to put your leech in it. Dust looping
over the glass's geodesic paperweight weight.
“We wanna trade pixels with you.” Meaning the dust wants to
bash you over the head with the hollow paperweight. You yawn.
You yawn until you're flat. Until you're black. Until you're matt,
dying of natural causes walking across the room.
Resurrected again on meat hooks. A gimp. Soaking up water with
your feet then drooling from the mouth until you're
a nauseous green. Whatever you are, you are no longer a user of coasters.
Would help if the bed was illuminated in nauseous green,
to bring out the bed-sized fingerprint lying on it. Not incriminating
so much as inimitable and irreplaceable and unique.
Not organic. You offered to piggyback the old lady
to the nearest bus stop. She loved every bone supporting your
pickup truck hairstyle. You're a character met on Craigslist,
ingrate biometrics. Scanners at airports read
Comic Sans crust on your irises. Terminal continuity.
The seasons that press the bridge into the water are a better person.