I jump now at the slap of light. At the kick and silences of glistening (as in words). At my name. She gave up, too. Pause. I will not talk paper. If I talk paper, I will mumble limbs and limbs crack/crumble/fall into a thousand breaths-there is bound (bind, binding, binder full of albino wolves) to be swaying. I said pause. Her skin was leathery. No. I said no. I would like a sandwich so big tasting like frothy cardboard/leak of light and a need to drag it home (but will not, full and disgusted). Did I do that? Six leftovers: 1: Drooling a snagged relationship back onto the field. 2: Letting the hawks curdle and spoil. 3: Bottled warfare. 4: Kid's Meal of Cowardly _______. 5: Why must someone wake me? Why not wake myself? 6: You left the Crucible on. How many times have I said, Please turn off the Crucible? How do I know I still exist? Slap of light. Laughter, photographs. Muffled lens of chortle. (As always, God has thrown Her body down onto the sand. Yes, She is making love with a young man while addressing Her audience.) Click. Click. Click. "These seem too glossy," I say. She snorts and leaps back. "Too glossy! Want me to take them again?"
kicked. i.e.:
lisa:
ringlets of blood