Something comes undone, I can feel it, but
I’m not going to say that I love it. Like belly
buttons way before they’re ever sexy. Unless
you go for that shit. Somebody always does.
I’m working on this thing. It’s a process. We
all work. I spend an hour or two trying to de
cide if that’s just fantasy. We’re all messy
fakes and it is fuckin’ fantastic how much dirt
shows beneath the tips of the nails; we’re
just two disagreements from the hammer
really banging ’em in, our piney lids, our soft-
spoken sepulchers. Nobody’s getting re
ligious just yet. That’s a good boy! I’m
reaching under some pronounced jawline
to give a little rubby-rub into that soft goatee
that sprouts like a tiny upside-down haystack
about two inches too close to the pooch’s goozle.
The doggone eden’s apple. The mange gets a
thrum of electricity that flows through it, scrunches
the mangled haystack of the concocted chihuahua,
cradled, as it weren’t, like a mewling ampersand
over its mamma-daddy’s pin-pricked forearm.
