a guy's job is: crush the parasite
species for its behavior. with muscle.
at night he keeps standing up from bed
and walking into the kitchen,
sensing the light crashing out from the
chamber he makes of his hands all day.
the light hot enough.
everyone has killed a couple of
houses with moldy breath.
why exit the real? it is bent perfectly.
it is bent like a dancer running away
fearfully.
i’m not one to talk
about animals or viscid remnants or the
gala of running girls sinking into their
racewaters, a dream i had of thoracic
compression. it’s only the
comprehensible edge.
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