EMERSON'S HANDKERCHIEF

In a diarrhea of fingerprints, teenagers of the Bible Belt text.

Quilting chromosomes from a mere stupid sentence

into sushi drift – a fatty smudge that blinds the metal detectors

hoary old men use to snoop for NASCAR wrecks in the marshes;

magnificent beasts dragged out on clotheslines.

Preceded by a hovering gramophone, guiding him with

insect prods to the local inn, the Sith stomps through town ...

by now the local pervert, notorious for his Power Point presentations

of motel skeletons hitting each other to pieces with a sledgehammer.

Morally an otherwise neutral topic; but the sound seeps through

the walls and seems to be attracted to peanut butter, becomes

one with it, and it doesn't rub folk right. Pond outtakes that

taught Emerson how to love his handkerchief – how to properly

use it after breathing ridges into his wax. Bog serum on your sandwich

after a scare like that, the new splatter that could've done a

pharmaceutical storefront whorly of funk.

He and Elmo shared a hairdryer, which bubbled mesmerizing

in the tub and whose blast exposed stickers on their faces.

Elmo noted how staring into a mirror was like

posing a tin upside-down; Emerson explained how to

carve black straw from a nun, her speaking thereby alternating

from a roar to a helium rustle; meanwhile a tiny yellow airplane

outside was spraying some bloodthirsty insect repellent –

turning everybody pale; the town's only Japanese inventor

was demonstrating his machine to a small crowd,

a computer that could do martial arts, its rural script

paving a fifty meter-long strip of dirt with one, subtle ankle.