Geologic. Leaden. Like drinking menstrual blood from a tin can. I can facilitate contusions because they reside comfortably as if they belong on flesh, but the strike is frightening. Sleeping under dust, tickle of thrashing mites, loose, unencumbered, abusing their freedom to taunt my whiskers brushing against nose hairs long as December’s timeline.
Skeletons appear between the lumps of the stucco ceiling, deformed bones that rattle alongside the shadow’s involvement. Which shadow? They all contain names.
Shadow of an empty can, depleted of green tea.
Shadow of a Styrofoam cup, white as the fingers assaulting the letters on the keyboard.
Shadow of a cellphone. I wish he’d die.
None of them maintain their figure, mutated designs that defy relevancy, for how shall I develop friendships with these mutated designs when they cannot sustain their figures for longer than 4 hours?
“What say ye, poet? If I whisper it’s hollow.”
Say no more. I trust your hollow whisper more than a screeching plow.
“And of the pigment of my rough and dry texture?”
I think of guilt and demand you hang from the stucco ceiling.
Bruce is schizophrenic. Everything but the shadow he hides is multiple things at once. He’s the most human, the most terrifying.
Oscar grows legs. He whimpers,
“Is this guilt the nail?”
My lad it’s the coffin.
His legs stretch like a model strutting down the catwalk, I place paperclips at his sides and he utilizes them as limbs, but of the opposable thumb I gift him nigh, he struggles to construct a proper noose. I laugh at his failure.
“But if ye laugh, poet…does that mean I may survive?”
My lad. Stalin was a dandy comedian but a tyrant none the less. Oscar’s shadow dangles. He joins the bones of the stucco ceiling as a permanent fixture.
“And of me, poet? Do I join him too?”
You shine perfect as jade under fluorescent lighting, aesthetic value such as yours cannot be taken…it can only give.
“But how do I give when you grow bored of my value?”
“Over time, poet…other objects will please you too. I was not placed here with purpose and design to compliment your desires. Someday my aesthetic value will deplete to a coal mines.”
Then end it now if the future is unavoidable.
“Grant me arms, poet.”
I shall do no such thing. If the choice is made then allow destiny to brandish its purpose.
“Poet….Poet…Please. The seconds will tick like a pendulum.”
And who is dangling the blade?
“You poet. You are the blade.”
Delilah sits mute as a meditating monk. Shocked by Bruce’s inclusion.
I venture toward the radiator and strike the coils when they rattle. I know the contusions belong on my flesh and no longer are the strikes terrifying.