Free Write Remedy
The slap hour, grand-daddy long red- hands signal
off- balance shifts… enter the crackaccino: four
shots closer to the dope-man high on
43rd and 10th—his Einstein with hair
tips tickling the tummy of Mars; my clothes-
pins plucking black lashes and bristle-brows from
the clamp’s hydraulic jaws. Four finger-
pecks pecked and four shots shot, the man
on Espionage stares with crackle-veined eyes
through the screen; he smirks a smirk with
teeth stained burgundy brown. He steals
a glance inside: the fresh document4 blank
and covered with freshly powdered pixie
candy, another smirk. He says, I’ll be happy
to stick around, looks like you need another
boost. Now four minutes plus four
pecks and four shots shy of empty, I plunge—
we plunge together.
No comments:
Post a Comment