Notes Toward More Notes Towards Nothing
I pathologize sunlight from a vantage point located inside thoughts of eyeballs other than mine. All my trousers are crotchless in the dreams of little girls. Or so I’m told. And why nobody ever speaks of sharks with loose bowels is not a hole I’ll bother to fill. Into the carcasses of dogs I cram candy for those who’ve never seen a piñata. Their eventual dementia will be a crisis not of what’s taken but what remains. And of what remains, my groin is a landlocked island of yellowing hors d’oeuvres. Before they died, my family developed the clotted legs of bees. An odd pneumonia pollinated them. My wife one morning sneezed a lung across her cereal. The post-mortems were conducted by a slew of insects each with a Christian name. And the contumacy of my teenage children went unmentioned at the funeral, which was well attended by people I didn’t know, who’d all botched their own gender reassignments before changing their minds. Lonely, I soon became infatuated with the aroma of ghosts. I smelled entire worlds of people around me. This newfound company was every bit the usual anticlimax. My increased hypersensitivity would distort like an amplified whisper. The gorge in my chest became adjustable. The touch of the women I met hurt like electric shocks. Only recently have I learned to live without such human upholstery. In the mirror my body exiles in Technicolor. The skin on my testicles is always black before it disappears.