I think I’ll just [read] a poem. It’ll tell my story and
make me feel good. The poundings of that thing that
is pounding in the lot next to the lot where I work
are as loud as Kaiju, who swipes all of the buses in
the terminal. I’m too noisy to look up at the clouds.
No more birthdays in progress. Nor merely the coolest
blue, suggestive of the bruises of inevitability. Para
normal? Non. We divert all gut-punches into the sense-
driven swift of the mainstream. Blunt verbs utter little
burnt peeps into the shadows—but they don’t keep the
bricks from imploding. Go, Kaiju, go! Four pills and
several desperate languages later, Zero arrives with
Martini-Man. Martini-Man arrives with a fruit-bat, a
burnt bulb and a snowman. All is well in the city.
