Radio operators in cubicles are responding in trajectory missiles of desire legions of spark plugs running up and down my arms. Behold my personal Frankenstein in life
cold dead and clammy.
I wish I knew him well when he was dead, the living are so convoluted. Always talking their ways into a desert salivating for water, salivating for bread, salivating for any old inane comfort. Froth hound froth toward that horizon. Sniff out that hidden mirage.
The dead they buried it in my forehead. They left a map in the backseat of my Chevrolet, somewhere totaled metallic frame a giant fin on the sun.
Are there giraffes in a gallop at my nose? I can’t quite see you boy.
I told you to stay home,

Come back later when you’ve brought a sandwich and a shovel.