House Broken And Kinda Dumb

Death-of-Literature-Skull-and-Book

When I consider the enormous range of God’s addiction to recognizable conduct, that is the ability to reverse a positron and thus correspond time with a wave, well, this ain’t no ripple on a flag. I think it remains like laughter inside a yelp, a few fluctuations in vibrations, suddenly, a feature from body language places braille for us to touch near a tilted lens, we must lean with the conversation to brace the weight of what’s to come. A cold pulse. A secret told. A knife where the heart used to go. I won’t allow it.

I present here the drunken cackle of domesticated colonists, spending the eve with fingers streaked with pizza grease, trembling the inch of fermented oats nestled at the bottom of their can. Outside a rail yard supervisor scours the empty boxcars for any stragglers lingering inside. He flashes his cellphone light, it skips like a strobe illuminating specks of dirt for seconds-long exposure. He’s alone. He’s alone and the weight of this realization forces his body to lean against a boxcar. A few feet away, Homeless Bob squirms and appears from the shadows. He saunters off and studies the silent supervisor still leaning, reposed, docile. He thinks he understands. He reasons with the lull, remembers a car commercial where a family sped down an open road, exchanging smiles, casual as ventriloquist dummies. If he could market that smile, he’d sell it to the supervisor, but the lack of noise forces his heartbeat forward. He kicks at pebbles that skip and knock the tracks, initiating tiny pings upon impact. This is his song. This is his song and it’s the only noise he’ll hear tonight besides his breathing.

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