on the attic floor the broken toy lies limbless and starving dust motes scrolling past his thunderstruck eyes his throat dry as kindling a crack of shine through a bowlegged seam in a weary wall wakes him for the first time in days weeks moths years and so he shimmies on his plastic belly over the warped floor toward one of his leftover legs takes a chunk out of a thigh a calf an ankle the toes everything tasting fraudulent counterfeit nothing nourishing or containing liquid his arms are the same as mantis wishbones but he sucks on them anyway to get to their marrow eating himself feels perverse idiotic juxtaposed but he wants to live as most people do and when up the steps comes a stump stump stumping he flashes an uncertain gewgaw smile so as not to get more broken again but the shoe has a wide sole like the atlantic sea only made of leather and so his skull conflates rubber cheeks glued side to side the last words he says are i still love you and can you please let me know if i’m really your son?
Words With Friends
It was heroin. Horse. Smack. Black tar. Junk. It was every nightmare I’d ever had run through the shredder, then lifted off in the breeze like gossamer confetti. And it was just a senseless game on my phone, unwinding and slotting letters from a marsala stew of random letters. I had never been so hopped-up. The more words I formed, the higher I got. Stoned. Shit-faced. Hammered. Bombed. Blitzed. After a while, I started to smoke the screen to get even more loaded. I found the nano-SIM card and French kissed it, loving the oily, acid tang. My erection lasted three days weeks months. When I closed my eyes, oceans of words swirled under-lid. With my heedless erection, I fucked lyrics and sonnets and paragraphs, but I did it slowly, sensuously, so it was more akin to making love than hedonistic intercourse. I impregnated whole volumes and these gave birth to baby words, some with deformities, nonsense words lacking vowels, others missing consonants. OoeeO. WMwMHP. uUu. I tucked the misshapen little rascals in at night and told them stories I’d assembled from a thousand other words that fell out my ears like lemmings off a sea cliff. I became Shakespeare to the 1,000th power. I had Daniel Webster blood. I was drunk on language, any language, every language. The night my wife left for good, she threw hot words at me, but I was too high to make sense of them. I was in another galaxy, filled with a billion naked words, their bodies shimmying up against me like a word meaning ecstasy, though I’m busy inventing a new descriptor as we speak.